Lola and the Boy Next Door

by Stephanie Perkins

  I open my window and look into the night sky. “I need your help.”

  The moon is thin, a sliver of a waning crescent. But she’s listening.

  It’s four in the morning. I can’t sleep, so I tell her about my last twenty-four hours. “And I don’t know what to do,” I say. “It’s all happening at once, but everything I do seems to be wrong. What am I supposed to do?”

  Cricket’s window slides open. I dive for my closest pair of glasses so that I can see him. His hair is puffy from sleep, even taller than usual, and his eyes are half shut. “You still talk to the moon?” His question isn’t condescending, it’s curious.

  “Pretty dumb, huh?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Did I wake you up? Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you talking, but I didn’t hear what you said.”

  I let out a slow exhale of relief. I need to be more careful. It doesn’t escape my attention that it’s nice to know when someone is telling the truth. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “It’s Sunday night, you should be in your dorm.”

  Cricket is quiet. He’s deciding how to answer. A car with thumping club music cruises down our street, looking for parking. When the bass fades away, he says, “I wanted to make sure you were okay. I was waiting for your light to come on. I fell asleep.” He sounds guilty.

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll leave early in the morning.” Cricket glances across his room at a clock. He sighs. “In two hours, actually.”

  “Well, I’m here. I made it. Barely.”

  He stares at me. It’s so intense that it’s almost invasive. I look down at the alley between our houses, and a stray cat is wandering through Andy’s compost pile. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

  “I probably shouldn’t have. I’m not the right person for you to talk to.”

  “Is that why you called Lindsey?”

  He shrugs uncomfortably. “Did you talk with her? Before you left?”

  “Yeah.”The cat jumps onto our recycling bin. It looks up, and its haunted eyes flash at me through the darkness. I shiver.

  “You’re cold,” Cricket says. “You should go to bed.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Do you feel better?” he blurts. “Did Max help?”

  I’m filled with shame. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

  We’re silent for several minutes. I turn my head and watch the street, the moon, the street. I feel him watch me, the stars, me. The wind is biting. I want to go inside, but I’m afraid to lose his company. Our friendship is teetering on the verge of extinction again. I don’t know what I want, but I do know that I don’t want to lose him.

  “Cricket?”

  “Yeah?”

  I peel my gaze from the sky to meet his eyes. “Will you come home next weekend?”

  He closes them. I get the strangest sense he’s thanking someone.

  “Yes,” he says. “Of course.”

  chapter sixteen

  Nathan wakes me up early so we can talk before school. Also as punishment, I assume. I’ve only had three hours of sleep. As I’m getting dressed, I peek through my curtains and discover that Cricket has left his open. His usual leather satchel and laundry bag are gone.

  There’s a pang in the hollow of my chest.

  I drag myself downstairs. Andy is awake—he’s never awake this early—and he’s making scrambled eggs. Nathan is checking his email at the table in one of his nicest suits. There’s no sign of Norah. She’s probably on the foldout couch in Nathan’s office.

  “Here.” Andy slides a mug of coffee toward me. He doesn’t approve of me drinking coffee, so this is serious. We take seats beside Nathan, and he sets aside his phone.

  “Lola, we understand why you left last night,” he says.

  I’m shocked. I’m also relieved that I’m Lola, not Dolores.

  Nathan continues, “But it doesn’t excuse your behavior. You scared us to death.”

  Now that sounds about right.

  The lecture I’d expected follows. It’s painful, it’s extensive, and it ends with me receiving a month of grounding. They don’t believe me when I tell them I didn’t smoke the pot, which they know was Max’s, and I can’t convince them otherwise on either point. I get a lengthy side lecture about the hazards of drug use, to which I could just as easily point to the closed office door and say, “Duh.”

  But I don’t.

  My walk to school is long, my day at school even longer. Lindsey tries to entertain me with stories about the twitchy man her parents hired to help in the restaurant. She’s convinced he has a dark secret like a hidden identity or the knowledge of a government cover-up. But all I can think about is tonight. I don’t have work. I don’t have a date with Max, and I won’t have one apart from Sunday brunch—if he’ll even show up anymore—for another month. And . . . no Cricket.

  At least the next month will give me plenty of time to work on my dress.

  The thought doesn’t cheer me.The stays are progressing faster than expected, and I’ve even started the wig, but the panniers are frustrating. I still can’t find any satisfying instructions. I spend my afternoon doing homework, chatting online with Lindsey, and adding chicken wire to the top of my white base wig. Marie Antoinette wore ENORMOUS wigs. The wire will give it the necessary height without drastically increasing the weight. I’ll cover it later with matching fake hair.

  Norah is talking with Andy in the kitchen. They picked up her things today, and the boxes have covered Nathan’s antiques and taken over our entire living room. The cardboard smells like incense and grime. Norah’s voice is weary, and I wince and turn up my music. I still haven’t seen her. I’ll have to soon, but I’m putting it off as long as possible. Until dinner, I guess.

  The doorbell rings at six-thirty.

  I pause—my pliers on the wire, my ears perked. Cricket?

  But then I hear Max’s deep and gravelly voice. My pliers drop, and I’m skidding downstairs. There’s no way, there’s no way, there’s no way. Except . . . there he is. He’s even abandoned his usual black T-shirt for a striped button-up. His tattoos poke out of the bottom of his sleeves. And he’s wearing his glasses, of course.

  “Max,” I say.

  He smiles at me. “Hey.”

  Andy looks as surprised as I feel. He’s clueless about what to do next. I throw my arms around Max. He hugs me back tightly but pulls away after only a moment. “Wanted to make sure you’re surviving,” he whispers.

  I squeeze his hand and don’t let go. I had no idea how much I needed to see him again, to know everything is okay between us. I’m not sure why I thought things would be different, other than last night felt different. He’s apologizing to my father. I know it must be killing him to do this. He states his words calmly and briefly.

  “Thank you for saying that, Max.” Andy hesitates, despising what he knows has to come next. “Won’t you stay for dinner?”

  “Thank you. I’d love to.”

  Max knew my parents would be out to get him, and he’s called them on it by showing up tonight. He’s so smart.

  “So you’re the boyfriend.”

  Max, Andy, and I grow rigid as Norah leans against the door frame between our living room and the kitchen. Even though Nathan is several years older than his sister, Norah looks at least a decade older. In their childhood, she shared the same round face as Nathan and me, but time and substance abuse have left her frail and worn. Her skin hangs as loose as her straggled hair. At least she’s had a shower.

  “Max. Meet Norah,” I say.

  He nods at her. She stares back, her expression dead.

  “You have a lot of nerve showing up here.”

  Everyone freezes again at the sound of Nathan’s voice. Still holding hands, Max and I turn around. My father sets down his briefcase beside the front door. The muscles in Max’s hand twitch, but he keeps his speech devoid of the emotion I know he feels. “I came to apologize. It was irresponsible for me to take Lola away
last night. She was upset, and I wanted to help her. It was the wrong way.”

  “Damn straight it was the wrong way.”

  “Dad.”

  “Nathan,” Andy says quickly. “Let’s talk in the office.”

  The wait is unbearable before Nathan removes his glare from Max and follows Andy. The office door shuts. I’m sweating. I let go of Max’s hand and realize my own is shaking. “The worst is over,” he says.

  “I’m grounded for a month.”

  He pauses. “Shit.”

  There’s a rude snort in the kitchen doorway, and I’m about to completely lose it.

  “I’m sorry.” Now Max does sound pissed off. “I didn’t realize this conversation was any of your business.”

  Norah gives a cruel smile. “You’re right. What would I know about a teenage girl running away and getting into trouble with her boyfriend?”

  “I didn’t run away,” I protest as Max says, “You’re out of line.”

  She strolls into the kitchen and out of sight. “Am I?” she calls out.

  I want to die. “I’m so sorry. For all of this.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He’s harsh. “I’m not here for them. I’m here for you.”

  The office door bangs open, and Nathan marches straight upstairs to their bedroom without looking at us. Andy gives a tense, fake smile. “Dinner in ten minutes.”

  Nathan has changed out of his work clothes. He’s trying, but barely. I didn’t know it was possible to pass a dish of vegetarian lasagna with such hostility. “So. Max. How was the show in L.A.? We didn’t realize you’d be back so soon.”

  Could this get any worse?

  “It was in Santa Monica, and it went well. We’ve booked two more shows there.”

  Yes. It could get worse.

  “Do you plan on doing a lot of touring?” Andy asks. I can’t decide if he sounds hopeful or skeptical.

  “We’d like to do more. I don’t want to read meters for the rest of my life.”

  “So you think this is a valid career choice?” Nathan asks. “You think it’s reasonable to expect success?”

  “OH MY GOD,” I say.

  Nathan holds up his hands in apology, but he doesn’t say anything. Max stews silently beside me. Norah stares out the window, no doubt longing to be anywhere but here. I scrape the spinach lasagna across my plate without picking it up.

  “I only mentioned the show,” Nathan says a minute later, “because it was unfortunate that it meant you had to miss our trip. We went to Muir Woods with—”

  “A picnic basket!” I say.

  Nathan gives me a smug expression. It was a test. He was testing me, to see if Max knew about the trip with Cricket.

  “You didn’t miss anything,” I say. “Besides the food. Of course.”

  Max smells the lie, though he doesn’t dare approach it in front of my parents. But I feel the wall build between us.

  “Hey, I have an idea,” I say. “Let’s talk about Norah.”

  “Lola,” Andy says.

  She snaps her head toward me as if coming out of a trance. “What?” And then she blinks. “What are you wearing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What is that? What are you supposed to be?”

  I’m in a dress with rainbow tulle poking out from underneath, and my hair is in two long braids that I’ve gelled with glitter. I glare at her. “Me. I’m me.”

  Norah frowns her disapproval, and Nathan turns to her. “Enough. Back off.”

  “Of course she has the right to complain about my wardrobe.” I gesture to her saggy sweater, the one she’s had forever that’s the color of oatmeal left in the sink. “She’s clearly on the cutting edge of fashion.”

  Max smirks.

  “O-kaaaay!” Andy jumps up. “Who wants pie?”

  “Wait until you see my dress for the winter formal,” I tell Norah. “It’s big and it’s lavish and it’s beautiful, and you’re just going to love it.”

  Norah jerks her face back toward the window. Like she has any right to feel hurt after attacking me. Max stiffens again, and Nathan can’t resist pouncing upon it. “What will you wear to the dance, Max?”

  “He’ll wear a tux,” I snap. “I wouldn’t make him wear a matching costume.”

  Max stands. “I gotta go.”

  I burst into tears. Nathan looks shamed. Max takes my hand and walks me to the front door. We step outside. I don’t care that I’m grounded. “I’m s-sorry.”

  This time he doesn’t tell me not to apologize. “That was messed up, Lola.”

  “I know.”

  “So tell me, did Nathan approve of Norah’s ‘career choice’ as a fortune-teller?”

  I feel sick. “It won’t be that bad on Sunday.”

  “Sunday.” Max lifts a dark brow. “Brunch. Right.” He drops my hand and puts his own in his pockets. “So are you serious about that dance?”

  I’m startled. I’ve talked about my dress a hundred times before. I wipe the tears from my cheeks, wishing I had something other than my fingers. “What?”

  “Lola. I’m twenty-two.” Max reacts quickly to my crushed expression. He reaches for both of my hands this time, and he draws me into and against his body. “But if it makes you happy, I’ll do it. If I can survive these stupid meals, I can survive one stupid dance.”

  I hate that it sounds like a punishment.

  chapter seventeen

  Ta-da!” St. Clair bursts into the lobby with the flourish of a magician. He’s showing off for Anna as he always does. It’s Thursday, and he isn’t scheduled to work, but of course he’s here anyway. Though tonight is different.

  He’s brought someone.

  Here’s the thing about Cricket Bell. You can’t NOT notice him when he walks into a room. The first thing that registers is his height, but it’s quickly followed by recognition of his energy. He moves gracefully like his sister, but with an enthusiasm he can’t quite seem to control—the constantly moving body, hands, feet. He’s been subdued the last few times I’ve seen him, but he’s fully revived now.

  “Anna,” St. Clair says. “This is Cricket.”

  Cricket dwarfs St. Clair. They look like Rocky and Bullwinkle, and the comfortable manner between them makes it appear they’ve been friends just as long. I suppose when one overly kind person and one overly outgoing person become friends, it’s easy like that.

  Anna smiles. “We keep missing each other in the dorm. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Cricket says. “I’ve heard nothing but good things. In fact, if I weren’t standing next to your boyfriend, I’d be tempted to ask you out myself.”

  She blushes, and St. Clair bounds inside the box office and wrestles her into a hug. “Miiiiiiiiine!” he says. The couple buying tickets from me eyes him warily.

  “Cut it out .” Anna pushes him off, laughing. “You’ll get fired. And then I’ll have to support your sorry arse for the rest of our lives.”

  The rest of their lives.

  Why does this always make me uneasy? I’m not bothered that they’re happy, am I? He hops into his usual sitting position on the counter, and they’re already laughing about something else. Cricket waits on the other side of the glass, looking amused. I hand the couple their change. “So . . . what are you doing in the city on a weekday?” I ask him.

  “I ran into St. Clair an hour ago, and he talked me into coming along. He said we’d see a movie,” he adds loudly.

  “RIGHT,” St. Clair says. “That moving-pictures thing. Let’s do it.” But he returns to his conversation with Anna.

  Cricket and I exchange smiles. “Come in.” I nod at the box-office door. A man in a fuzzy chartreuse sweater approaches my window, but even that’s not enough to distract me from watching Cricket as he moves toward the door. Those long, easy strides. My chest swells with both heartache and heartbreak. He enters, and I jerk away my gaze.

  “Enjoy the show,” I tell the sweater man. Cricket waits behind me while I print ticket
s for two more people. It’s impossible to concentrate with him standing there. The lobby empties again, and he takes the chair beside me. His hems rise and reveal his socks. Blue and purple stripes. On his left hand is a list: CH 12, SHAMPOO, BOX.

  “How are you?” he asks. It’s not a casual question.

  I remove my glasses for a moment to rub my tired eyes. “Surviving.”

  “But she won’t be there for much longer.” He fidgets with his watch. “Will she?”

  “Her credit is shot, and she’s failed the background check for every potential apartment.”

  He grimaces. “In other words, she’s not leaving tomorrow.”

  “The break-in charges from when she tried to get back inside her apartment aren’t helping either.” I cross my arms. “She wants Nathan to sue to have the charges against her dropped, but he won’t. Not when she was in the wrong.”

  Cricket’s frown deepens, and I realize that he doesn’t know about Norah’s recent arrest. I fill him in, because . . . he already knows everything else.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice turns to anguish. “Is there anything I can do to help?” There’s a certain restraint in his muscles as he struggles to keep from reaching out to me.

  “What’s box?” I blurt.

  He’s thrown. “What?”

  I point at his hand. “Read chapter twelve and buy shampoo, right? What’s box?”

  His right hand absentmindedly covers his left. “Oh. Uh, I need to find one.”

  I wait for more.

  He looks away, and his body follows him. “And I did. Find one. I’m moving some stuff back into my parents’ house. My room at school is crowded. And my other bedroom is empty. It has lots of space. For things.”

  “You . . . you do spend a lot of weekends there.”

  “Andschoolbreaks andsummers.” The words tumble out, and his face darkens as if shamed by his eagerness. No conversation is safe anymore. St. Clair interrupts with timing so perfect that he must have been listening. “Hey, did you know that Cricket Bell is related to Alexander Graham Bell?”