Lola and the Boy Next Door

by Stephanie Perkins

  She freezes. Her hair falls before her face like a shield. And then she tucks it behind her ears as if I didn’t say anything, and she removes something from her box. “Fenghuang dancong oolong. Fenghuang means ‘phoenix.’ This is the one for you.”

  “No.”

  Norah opens our cabinet of drinking glasses and takes out a pink teacup. I don’t recognize it, so it must be one of hers. My blood fires again. “You put your cups in our cabinets?”

  “Just two.” She pulls out another, the color of jade. “This one is mine.”

  “So where’s your crystal ball? Beside the television? Will I find your turban in the laundry room?”

  The empty cups rattle against their saucers as she sets them on the table. “You know I hate that crap. A costume doesn’t signify meaning or experience. It’s a lie.”

  “And what you do isn’t lying?”

  “Sit down,” she says calmly.

  “I’ve never let you read my leaves before, so why would I start now?”

  Norah thinks for a moment. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

  “No.” But I say it too quickly. She spots a waver as the back corners of my mind answer differently. Who isn’t the least bit curious? I know fortune-telling is a deception, but my life has become such a struggle that I can’t help but hope for an answer anyway. Maybe the fortune will tell me something about Cricket. Maybe it knows something I don’t, or maybe it will make me think of something I wouldn’t have otherwise realized.

  Smugness on her lips. I sit back down but avert my eyes to show how much I dislike being here. The kettle whistles, and Norah scoops a spoonful of tea directly into it. The house creaks quietly while the oolong steeps. The longer we wait, the edgier I become. I almost get up to leave a dozen times, but curiosity has a strong hold on me.

  “Drink,” Norah says, when it’s finished. “Leave about half a teaspoon of liquid.”

  I sip the tea, because it’s hot. The flavor is light, and it tastes like a peach, but with something darker hidden inside. Like smoke. Norah doesn’t mind the heat. She gulps hers down and pours another cup. I finally reach the bottom. I hold the pink cup close and frown at the brown-green leaves, looking for symbols. It’s all lumped together.

  “Now what?”

  “Take the cup with your left hand.”

  “Is that my magic hand?”

  She ignores this, too. “Now turn it three times, counterclockwise—faster than that. Yes, good. Turn it over onto your saucer.”

  “Won’t all the leaves run out?”

  “Shh. Keep your hand on the bottom of the cup. And close your eyes and take a moment to think about what you’d like to know.”

  I feel stupid. THAT is what I think about. And . . . I think about Cricket Bell.

  “Turn it back over. Carefully,” she adds. I slow down and right my teacup. The leaves have used the last remaining droplets of liquid to stick to the sides. “I’ll take that now.” She’s silent for many minutes. Her bony hands tilt the cup every which way, to gain different perspectives or perhaps just to see the shapes better in the dimmed kitchen light. “Well.” Norah sets it down and gestures for me to scoot closer. I do. “Do you see this cloud here, close to the handle?”

  “Sort of.Yeah.”

  “That means you’re in a stage of confusion or trouble. But with me living here, we didn’t need leaves to tell us that. And this triangle down here, that means you possess a natural talent for creativity. But we didn’t need them to know that either.”

  I’m surprised by her frankness, as well as the rare compliment. I scoot a little closer.

  “But do you see these dots, traveling around the edge of the cup?”

  I nod.

  “A path of dots means a journey. This one will be taken over the course of several months. If it circled all the way back around, it would have been at least a year,” she explains. “But the journey ends here, into this shape. What does that look like to you?”

  “Um. A moon, maybe? With a . . . stick coming out of it?”

  “How about a cherry?”

  “Yeah! I see that.”

  “Cherries represent first love. In other words, this path you’re on leads to first love.”

  I jolt, and my legs smack the table. The way she doesn’t startle makes me believe she expected this reaction. Does she know how I feel about Cricket? Or, should I say, how I felt about him in the past? She was certainly around, but how much did she observe?

  Norah is messing with me.

  She pauses. “Why don’t you tell me what shapes you see in the cup?”

  I stare into it for several minutes. I look for dogs or shoes or anything recognizable, but all I see are wet leaves. My eyes keep returning to the cherry. I set the cup down. “I don’t know. There’s a pile of sticks on that side. And a curlicue thing.”

  “Okay. The loop is near the rim, so that means you’ve been making—or you’ll soon be making—impulsive actions.”

  “Good or bad?” I quickly ask.

  She shrugs. “Could be either, but are things done on impulse ever really a good idea?”

  “Is that something your therapist told you?” I snap.

  Norah’s tone darkens. “And see how the sticks are crossed, all on top of each other? That suggests a series of arguments. It usually leads to a parting.” Her voice is short.

  “A parting.” I stand. “Yes, thank you. This was very educational.”

  Arguments, partings, impulses. Clouds of confusion. I thought fortunes were supposed to make people feel BETTER about their lives. I thought that’s why people paid money to hear them. And a journey to first love? Just because Max insulted her doesn’t mean she has to steer me into the arms of another guy.

  Though it did look like a cherry.

  I don’t know why I’m giving any of this crap my consideration. Norah thinks my costumes are lies, that they lack meaning? She should look in the mirror. Her entire livelihood—what’s left of it—lacks meaning. I’m steaming as I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I turn off my lights just as a light behind my curtains flicks on.

  So he’s staying the night.

  Has he been talking to Calliope? I wonder if he’ll be able to complete his project for school, whatever it is. Probably not. I toss in my bedcovers, unable to sleep from the guilt over Cricket, from the caffeine in the tea, from that stupid freaking cherry. Maybe cherries don’t mean first love. Maybe they mean the person you lose your virginity to. It would make more sense, and in that case, my path leads to Max.

  Which means I’m on the right path?

  I hear his window slide open.

  And then . . . nothing more.

  I don’t know why, but I think he’ll call my name. He doesn’t. I grab my glasses and creep out of bed. I peer through the darkness. Cricket is looking up, staring at the sky. I watch him silently. He doesn’t move. I reach for my curtain, that impulse I can’t control, and open my window. “Hi,” I say.

  He looks directly at me. His eyes are deepened as if he’s still staring at the stars.

  “Is everything okay with your sister?”

  Cricket nods slowly. “She’ll survive.”

  “I’m sorry about your project.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Will you get to make it up?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do . . . do you want those illustrations?”

  A small smile. “Sure.”

  “Okay. Hold on.” I dig through the piles on my floor until I find the binder of pictures printed from the internet and photocopies xeroxed from books—all of the inspiration for my dress that I’ve collected since I met Max at the beginning of summer. I return to my window, and Cricket is sitting in his, just like the first time I saw him again. At the end of summer. “Should I toss it to you?” I glance at Andy’s compost pile below.

  A split second of thought and he says, “I’ll be right back.”

  He disappears, leaving me to observe his room. I
t’s still bare, but traces of him have begun to appear—a science magazine by his bed, a pile of tangled rubber bands on his dresser, a half-filled juice glass on his desk, an unusual coat hanging on the back of his desk chair. Cricket returns a minute later with a broom and a metal basket of fruit. He removes the fruit, one by one, and sets them on his dresser.

  I’m terrified he’ll pull out a cherry.

  He doesn’t.

  He places the empty basket on the wooden broom handle, raises the end, and the basket slides down to his hand. Cricket leans out his window and stretches out the broom handle. His arms are long enough that it reaches me with room to spare.

  “Ready?”

  I prepare for the catch. “Aye, Captain.”

  He tilts the broom, and the basket flies down the stick and into my arms. I laugh in delight. “You know, I really could have thrown it.”

  “Wouldn’t want to take the chance. I might have missed it.”

  “You never miss a catch.” I tuck the binder inside the basket. “It’s kinda heavy.”

  “I’ve got it.” Cricket holds the broom steady and up at an angle. I stretch on my toes to slide the basket’s handle onto the broom. I drop it. The weight lowers the broom, but he raises it in just enough time to send the basket flying back to him. “HA!” His belt buckle clicks against the window frame as he moves his body back inside, and I’m startled to recognize it. It’s the same belt he’s had for years—black, cracked leather. He pulls down his shirt, which has come up a bit. His torso is so long that shirts are always a little short on him. Another detail I’d forgotten.

  I shake my head, trying to push away thoughts of his abdomen. But I’m smiling. “That was both ridiculously easy and way more complicated than it should have been.”

  He smiles back. “That’s my specialty.”

  chapter nineteen

  I’m ambushed as I pass the Bell house the next morning, but not by the preferred twin.

  “We need to talk.” Calliope’s arms are crossed, and she’s dressed in pale blue running clothes, the same shade of blue as her eyes. Cricket’s eyes. The twins also share the same almostblack hair, although hers lies down neat and tidy. But their smiles are night and day. Cricket’s looks as if it can’t be helped, as if it can’t possibly be contained, while Calliope’s looks practiced. No doubt it is. I know how dedicated she is to practice.

  She’s clearly been waiting for me to come outside before beginning her daily run. To say that I’m unnerved would be a monumental understatement. “Talk about what?” I move today’s schoolbag—a vintage glittery vinyl bowling bag—in front of my chest.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  I glance around our street. “Um. Going to school?”

  “With my brother.” Her voice grows even harder. “This stops now. I’m sick of watching you take advantage of him.”

  “Ex—excuse me?”

  “Don’t play dumb.You know exactly what I’m talking about. He’s always been this total sucker for you; he’ll do anything you say. So, tell me. Did you break up with your boyfriend last night before arriving home on Cricket’s arm?”

  My face reddens. “He offered to help me because my glasses broke. I couldn’t see.”

  “And all of that flirting and pressing your chest into his arm? Did that also help?”

  I’m too stunned to reply.

  “My brother isn’t like you,” she continues. “He doesn’t have a lot of experience. He’s only had one girlfriend, and it wasn’t for long, and she was barely that. I seriously doubt he’s done anything more than kiss.”

  The blush grows deeper. The implication is that I have done more, which is none of her business.

  “In other words, my brother is pretty freaking clueless when it comes to girls, and he can’t tell when he’s being had. But I can tell, so I’m telling you to BACK OFF.”

  My vision is blurring. I still can’t find the words to speak.

  Calliope takes a step closer. “The special trips home to see you, the crushing disappointment whenever he discovers you’re out with Max. Stop jerking him around.”

  ENOUGH.

  “You’re mistaken.” I straighten my spine, bone by bone. “Cricket and I are friends. Haven’t you ever heard of friends?” I pause and then shake my head. “No, I guess not.”

  “I have a best friend. And you’re messing with his head.”

  “Messing . . . messing with his head? What about you lying to him, two years ago? Telling him that I didn’t want to come to his party?”

  This time, she’s the one who reddens.

  “You’re just worried you’re losing him again. Now that he’s gone to college, your life must be so lonely.” I push past her. “It must be hard when your head cheerleader moves on and gets a life.”

  She grabs my coat to stop me. “This isn’t about me.”

  “It’s always about you.” I shake her off, furious. “But just so you know, your brother has a life, too. He may not be performing for crowds, but he’s just as talented. But you’d never notice it because your entire family is stuck in selfish Calliope world.”

  “Actually.” The word is slow and venomous. “I have two talented brothers. And Cricket knows that we care about him.”

  “Does he? Are you sure about that?”

  “He would say something.” But suddenly she looks unsure.

  “He does,” I say through a clenched jaw. “To me, to my family. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to be late for school.”

  Calliope’s accusations hang over my head like black clouds. Taking advantage of him. I’m not doing anything on purpose—I would never intentionally hurt Cricket—but I was already aware that I haven’t been doing him any favors. Hearing her point it out was awful, and I cringe every time I remember her mentioning the flirting.

  More uncomfortable is the knowledge that Cricket had a girlfriend. Even if he is inexperienced, knowing he once dated someone shouldn’t make me feel this way. Like my intestines are made of worms. I have Max, and Cricket should be allowed to have dated someone, too. To be dating someone now.

  Oh God. The thought of Cricket with a new girlfriend makes me ill. Please, please, please don’t let him get a girlfriend until I become comfortable with this whole friendship thing.

  And then I feel worse, because jeez, what a selfish wish.

  Max calls me after school to announce another Saturday night in Santa Monica. I knew the band had scheduled more shows down there, but the way he neglected to mention it earlier this week makes me paranoid that this is something additional, something booked to escape our brunch. I haven’t seen him since that awful dinner. All I want to do is burrow into his arms and know that everything is still good between us.

  He offers to take me out during my dinner break at work. We meet at a crappy Thai diner, and I can’t keep my hands off him. I’m craving closeness. The owner shoots us dirty looks as we make out in the corner table.

  “Come to my place after work?” he asks.

  “Andy’s picking me up, and I’m still grounded. What about tomorrow, before you leave? I can pretend like I have an early shift?”

  “We’re heading out early. There’s a music store in L.A. we want to check out. Don’t make that face, Lola-girl,” he says when a pout slips onto my lips. He laces his fingers through mine. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

  The weekend passes slowly without him. It also passes without Cricket. All I see of him is a sign, and not a sign like something in a teacup, but a sign written in black marker and taped to his window: SKATE AMERICA. SEE YOU NEXT WEEKEND. Why didn’t he say earlier that he’d be out of town? Did Calliope tell him about our fight?

  I want to call him, but I don’t have his number. And I could ask Lindsey—I’m sure it’s still saved in her phone—but it’d give the wrong impression for me to go out of my way like that. Calliope would probably bite me if she found out. So I do homework and stare at his sign instead.

  Now it’s Wednesday
. It’s still there.

  And the more I’ve stared at his handwriting—very blocky, very boy—the more I want to prove to myself that we can be friends. I like Cricket. He likes me. It’s not fair to let Calliope intimidate us out of even trying.

  Which is, somehow, why I’m on a train to Berkeley. I think. In addition to the friendship thing, I’ve had increasingly distressing thoughts about my dress binder. I can’t believe I gave it to him! THE WHOLE THING. Not, “Here are the relevant five pages.” But six months of planning and daydreaming. What does he think when he looks at it? I recall each floofy, frilly, overthe-top picture, and my scribbled hearts and notes and doodles, and I want to die. He must think my brain is made of cake.

  I have to get it back.

  Besides, I’ll also need my notes this week. I have a ton of work to do on the dress. So, really, it’s practicality that led me onto a train as soon as school let out. The ones that run to the surrounding cities are sleeker than the ones that rumble through San Francisco. They rocket through the stations with fierce howls, but their passengers share the same tired and bored expressions. I fidget with my red, heart-shaped sunglasses and watch the dirty, industrial side of Oakland whiz by.

  It’s a lonely ride. It’s only twenty minutes, but including the wait for the train at the station and the local train I took to get to this train, I’ve been traveling for over an hour. I can’t believe St. Clair does this every day. Now I know when he does his homework. He travels an hour—two hours, since he has to return!—to see Anna. And she does this every weekend to see him.

  What will Cricket say when I show up? He knows it’s not a quick trip. Maybe I should tell him that I was vintage clothes shopping in the area, so I thought I’d drop by. Friends drop by, right? And then I can casually mention the binder and take it home. Yes, the friend thing and then the binder thing. Because that’s why I’m going.

  So why haven’t you told Max?

  I squirm in my seat and push away the question.

  Apparently, I’m only grounded from things that involve my boyfriend. When I told Andy today that I was going to Lindsey’s for a Pushing Daisies marathon, he didn’t blink. He even gave me money to pick up a pizza. I think he feels guilty about Norah. It’s been a week and a half, and there’s still no sign of her leaving. Last night, one of her usuals even stopped by for a reading. My parents and I were already in bed when someone began pressing our doorbell like it was a panic button. I imagine that when Nathan gets home tonight, there’ll be another hostile dispute. I bet Andy would rather be watching old television and eating pizza, too.