I want my parents to remember that I’m good, so they’ll also remember that Cricket is good. Better than good. He came over to formally apologize to them, though I don’t think it helped. His name is still banned from our household. Even after Mrs. Bell told Andy what was happening with Aleck, and my parents were tut-tutting for the family over dinner, they skipped over Cricket’s name. It was, “Calliope and . . . hmph.”
At least Mr. and Mrs. Bell don’t know what happened. My parents didn’t call them. I probably have Andy to thank for that, maybe even Norah. She’s been surprisingly cool about all of this. “Give them time,” she says. “Don’t rush anything.”
Which is what I know I need anyway. Time.
The memory of Max is still bitter and strong. I didn’t realize it was possible to have such an ugly breakup when you were the one who did the breaking up. And I’m pretty sure I’m the one who did the breaking up. At least, I did it first.
And then he did it better.
I feel terrible about how it ended, and I feel terrible for not being honest with him while we were together. I want to apologize. Maybe it would get rid of these bad feelings, and I’d be able to move on. Maybe then it wouldn’t sting whenever my mind summons his name. I’ve left several messages on his voice mail, but he hasn’t called me back. And he’s still gone from the city. I even went to Amoeba to ask Johnny.
Max’s last words haunt me. Am I nothing to him? Already?
I’m not ready for Cricket, and his hands are full anyway. With Aleck too depressed to give Abigail his attention, she’s decided that Cricket is the next best thing. He’s home for winter break—we’re both on winter break—and I rarely see him without Abby hanging from his arms or wrapped around his legs. I recognize that feeling, that need, inside of her. I wish there was someone I could hold on to.
Lindsey helps. She calls every day, and we talk about . . . not Max. Not Cricket. Though she did guiltily announce that she’s attending the winter formal. She asked Charlie, and of course he said yes. I’m happy for her.
A person can be sad and happy at the same time.
I’ve moved my Marie Antoinette dress and wig and panniers into Nathan’s office, aka Norah’s room. I don’t like looking at them. Maybe I’ll finish the dress later, for Halloween next year. Lindsey can wear it. But I’m still not going to the dance, and at least I know that was the right decision. The last few weeks of school were miserable.
“Who died and turned you Goth?” Marta sneered, turning up her nose at my all-black ensemble. Her friends, the trendiest clique at Harvey Milk Memorial, joined in, and soon everyone was accusing me of being a Goth, which—even though it’s not true—would have been fine. Except then the Goth kids accused me of being a poseur.
“I’m not a Goth. And I’m not in mourning,” I insisted.
At least my new wardrobe helps me blend into my neighborhood. In the winter, the Castro turns into a sea of trendy black clothing. Black helps me disappear, and I don’t want to be seen right now. It’s amazing how clothing affects how people see—or don’t see—you. The other day I waited for the bus beside Malcolm from Hot Cookie. He’s served me dozens of rainbow M&M cookies, and we’re always debating the merits of Lady Gaga versus Madonna, but he didn’t recognize me.
It’s odd. Me, the real me, and I’m unknown.
The few people who do recognize me always ask if I’m feeling okay. And it’s not that I feel great, but why does everyone assume something is wrong because I’m not costumed? Our usual bank teller went so far as to mention his concern to Nathan. Dad came home worried, and I had to assure him, again and again, that I’m fine.
I am fine.
I’m not fine.
What am I?
The blinking Christmas lights and flickering menorahs in the windows of the houses, hardware store, bars and clubs and restaurants . . . they seem false. Forced. And I’m unnaturally aggravated by the man dressed as sexy Mrs. Claus handing out candy canes in front of the Walgreens and collecting money for charity.
I spend my break working at the theater—I take extra shifts to fill my spare time—and watching Cricket. Throughout the day, I can usually spot him through one of the Bells’ windows, playing with Abigail. Abby has sandy-colored hair like her father and grandfather, but there’s something sweet and pure about her smile that reminds me of her uncle. He bundles her up and takes her on walks every day.
Sometimes, I grab a coat and run after them. I’ve gone with them to the park for the swings, to the library for picture books, and to Spike’s for espresso (Cricket and me) and an organic gingerbread man (Abby). I try to be helpful. I want to earn him, deserve him. He always bursts into a smile when he sees me, but it’s impossible to mistake the silent examination that follows. As if he’s wondering if now I’m okay. If today is the day. And I can tell by his expression, always a little confused and sad, that he knows it’s not.
I wish he wouldn’t look at me like that. I’ve become his difficult equation face again.
In the evenings, after Abby has gone to bed, I’ll see him tinkering in his bedroom. I can’t tell what he’s making, it must be something small, but the telltale signs of mechanical bits and pieces—including objects opened and stripped for parts—remain scattered about his desk. That’s making me happy.
Christmas passes like Thanksgiving, without a bang. I go to work—movie theaters are always packed on Christmas Day—and Anna and St. Clair are both there. They try to cheer me up by playing this game where we get a point every time someone complains about the ticket price or yells at us because a show is sold out. Whoever has the most points at the end of the day gets the unopened bag of gummy lychee candy St. Clair found in theater twelve. It’s not a great prize. But it helps.
The managers bought Santa hats for everyone to wear. Mine is the only one that’s hot pink. I appreciate the thought, but I feel ridiculous.
I get yelled at the most. I win the lychee candy.
New Year’s Day. It’s cold, but the sun is out, so I take Betsy to Dolores Park. She’s sniffing out places on the hillside to leave her mark when I hear a tiny, “O-la!”
It’s Abby. I’m flattered she spoke my name. At one and a half years old, her vocabulary isn’t immense. She tears toward me from the playground. She’s dressed in a tiny purple tutu. Cricket walks in long strides behind her, hands in his pockets, smiling.
I get on my knees to hug Abby, and she collapses into my arms, the way really little kids do. “Hi, you,” I say. She lunges for the turquoise rhinestone barrette in my hair. I’d forgotten to take it out. Norah—NORAH, of all people—snapped it in at breakfast. “It’s the New Year,” she said. “Sparkles won’t kill you today.”
Cricket pulls off Abby before she can rip out the barrette. “All right, all right. Abigail Bell, that’s enough.” But he’s grinning at her. She grins back.
“You’ve made quite the new best friend,” I say.
His expression turns to regret. “Children do have questionable taste.”
I laugh. It’s the first time I can remember laughing this week.
“Though she has great taste in hair accessories,” he continues. Betsy rolls onto her stomach for him, and he scratches her belly. His rainbow bracelets and rubber bands shake against her black fur. The back of his entire left hand, including fingers, is crammed with mathematical symbols and calculations. Abby leans over hesitantly to pet my dog. “It’s nice to see you in something sparkly again,” he adds.
My laughter stops, and my cheeks redden. “Oh. It’s stupid, I know. It’s New Year’s, so Norah thought . . .”
Cricket frowns and stands back up. His shadow stretches, tall and slender, out for infinity behind him. “I was being serious. It’s nice to see a little bit of Lola shining through.” The frown turns into a gentle smile. “It gives me hope.”
And I can’t explain it, but I’m on verge of tears. “But I have been me. I’ve been trying hard to be me. A better me.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“On what planet does Lola Nolan not wear . . . color?”
I gesture at my outfit. “I have this in white, too, you know.”
The joke falls flat. He’s struggling not to say something. Abby bumps into his left leg and grips it with all of her might. He picks her up and sets her on his hip.
“Just say it,” I tell him. “Whatever it is.”
Cricket nods slowly. “Okay.” He collects his thoughts before continuing. He speaks carefully. “Being a good person, or a better person, or whatever it is you’re worried about and trying to fix? It shouldn’t change who you are. It means you become more like yourself. But . . . I don’t know this Lola.”
My heart stops. I feel faint. It’s just like what Max used to say.
“What?” Cricket is alarmed. “When did he say that?”
I flush again and look down at the grass. I wish I didn’t talk out loud when I’m distressed. “I haven’t seen him again, if that’s what you mean. But he said . . . before . . . that because I dressed in costume, he didn’t know who I really was.”
Cricket closes his eyes. He’s shaking. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s shaking with anger. Abby squirms in his arms. It’s upsetting her. “Lola, do you remember when you told me that I had a gift?”
I gulp. “Yes.”
His eyes open and lock on mine. “You have one, too. And maybe some people think that wearing a costume means you’re trying to hide your real identity, but I think a costume is more truthful than regular clothing could ever be. It actually says something about the person wearing it. I knew that Lola, because she expressed her desires and wishes and dreams for the entire city to see. For me to see.”
My heart is beating in my ears, my lungs, my throat.
“I miss that Lola,” he says.
I take a step toward him. His breath catches.
And then he takes a step toward me.
“Ohhhh,” Abby says.
We look down, startled to discover that she’s still on his hip, but she’s pointing into the winter-white sky. San Francisco’s famous flock of wild parrots bursts across Dolores Park in a flurry of green feathers. The air is filled with beating wings and boisterous screeching, and everyone in the park stops to watch the spectacle. The surprising whirl disappears over the buildings as swiftly as it arrived.
I turn back to Abby. The unexpected explosion of color and noise and beauty in her world has left her awed.
chapter twenty-nine
It’s the Sunday night before school resumes, and my parents are on a date. I’m hanging out with Norah. We’re watching a marathon of home decorating shows, rolling our eyes for different reasons. Norah thinks the redesigned houses look bourgeois and, therefore, boring. I think they look boring, too, but only because each designer seems to be working from the same tired manual of modern decorating.
“It’s nice to see you looking like yourself again,” she says during a commercial break.
I’m wearing a blue wig, a ruffled Swiss Heidi dress, and the arms from a glittery golden thrift-store sweater. I’ve cut them off, and I’m using them as glittery golden leg warmers. I snort. “Yeah, I know how much you like the way I dress.”
She keeps her eyes on the television, but that familiar Norah edge returns to her voice. “It’s not how I would dress, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it. It doesn’t mean I don’t like you for who you are.”
I keep my eyes on the television, too, but my chest tightens.
“So,” I say a few minutes later as the show recaps what we’ve already seen. “What’s happening with the apartment? Has Ronnie set a move-in date yet?”
“Yep. I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”
“Oh. That’s really . . . soon.”
She snorts. Her snort sounds like mine. “Soon can’t come soon enough. Nathan’s been suffocating me from the moment I arrived.”
And there’s the ungrateful Norah I know. Suddenly her impending departure is welcome. But I only shake my head, and we watch the rest of the episode in discontented silence. Another commercial break begins.
“Do you know the secret to fortune-telling?” she asks, out of the blue.
I sink into the couch cushions. Here we go.
Norah turns to look at me. “The secret is that I don’t read leaves. And palm readers don’t read palms, and tarot readers don’t read cards. We read people. A good fortune-teller reads the person sitting across from them. I study the signs in their leaves, and I use them to give an interpretation of what I know that person wants to hear.” She leans in closer. “People prefer paying when they hear what they want to hear.”
I cringe, sure that I don’t want to hear whatever’s coming next.
“Say a woman comes in,” she continues. “No wedding ring, tight shirt, cleavage up to her chin. Asks about her future. This is a woman who wants me to say that she’s about to meet someone. And, usually, if the shirt is tight enough and with confidence gained from a good fortune, guess what? She’ll probably meet someone. Now, it may not be the right someone, but it still means her fortune came true.”
My frown deepens. I stare at the television screen, but the flashing commercials are making it hard to focus. “So . . . when you looked at me, you saw someone who wanted arguments and confusion and partings? And you wanted it to come true?”
“No.” Norah scoots even closer. “You were different. I don’t have many chances to talk to you when you might actually listen to what I have to say. Reading your leaves was an opportunity. I didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear. I told you what you needed to hear.”
I’m confused and hurt. “I needed to hear bad things?”
She places a hand on mine. It’s bony, but somehow it’s also warm. I turn to her, and her gaze is sympathetic. “Your relationship with Max was waning,” she says, using her fortune-teller voice. “And I saw that you had a much more special one waiting right behind it.”
“The cherry. You did know how I felt about Cricket back then.”
She removes her hand. “Christ, the mailman knew how you felt about him. And he’s a good kid, Lola. It was stupid of you to get caught with him in bed—you know your parents are strict as hell about that shit—but I know he’s good. They’ll come around to it, too. And I know you’re good.”
I’m quiet. She thinks I’m a good person.
“Do you know my biggest regret?” she asks. “That you turned into this bright, beautiful, fascinating person . . . and I can’t take credit for any of it.”
There’s a lump in my throat.
Norah crosses her arms and looks away. “Your fathers piss me off, but they’re great parents. I’m lucky they’re yours.”
“They care about you, too, you know. I care about you.”
She’s silent and stiff. I take a chance and, for the first time since I was a little girl, burrow into her side. Her hard shoulders melt against me.
“Come back and visit,” I say. “Once you’ve moved.”
The lights of the commercials flash.
Flash.
Flash.
“Okay,” she says.
I’m in my bedroom later that night when my phone rings. It’s Lindsey. “On second thought,” she begins, “maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”
“What?” Her unnaturally disturbed tone gives me an instant chill. “Tell me what?”
A long, deep breath. “Max is back.”
The blood drains from my face. “What do you mean? How do you know?”
“I just saw him. My mom and I were shopping in the Mission, and there he was, walking down Valencia.”
“Did he see you? Did you talk to him? What did he look like?”
“No. Hell no. And like he always does.”
I’m stupefied. How long has he been back? Why hasn’t he called? His continued silence means that he must have been telling the truth: I’m nothing to him anymore.
Lately, I’ve gone several hours—once, an entire day—without thinking of him. This is a fresh
dig into my wounds, but somehow . . . the blow isn’t as crushing as I thought it would be. Perhaps I’m becoming okay with being nothing to Max.
“Can you breathe?” Lindsey asks. “Are you breathing?”
“I’m breathing.” And I am. An idea is quickly mushrooming inside of me. “Listen, I have to go. There’s something I need to do.” I grab a faux-fur coat and my wallet, and I’m racing out my door when I hear a faint plink.
I stop.
Plink, my window says again. Plink. Plink.
My heart leaps. I throw open the panes, and Cricket sets down his box of toothpicks. He’s wearing a red scarf and some sort of blue military jacket. And then I notice the leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and this blow is crushing. His break is over. He’s going back to Berkeley.
His arms slacken. “You look incredible.”
Oh. Right. It’s been a month since he’s seen me in anything other than black. I give him a shy smile. “Thank you.”
Cricket points at my coat. “Going somewhere?”
“Yeah, I was on my way out.”
“Meet me on the sidewalk first? Would your parents would mind?”
“They’re not home.”
“Okay. See you in a minute?”
I nod and hurry downstairs. “I’ll be back in an hour,” I tell Norah. “There’s something I have to do. Tonight.”
She mutes the television and raises an eyebrow in my direction. “Does this mysterious errand have to do with a certain guy?”
I’m not sure which one she means, but . . . either is correct. “Yeah.”
She studies me for several excruciating seconds. But then she un-mutes the television. “Just get back here before your parents do. I don’t wanna have to explain.”
Cricket is waiting at the bottom of my stairs. His willowy figure looks exquisite in the moonlight. Our gazes are fixed on each other as I walk down the twenty-one steps to my sidewalk. “I’m going back to school,” he says.
Lola and the Boy Next Door Page 21
