Lola and the Boy Next Door

by Stephanie Perkins

  I nod at his bag. “I guessed as much.”

  “I just wanted to say goodbye. Before I left.”

  “Thank you.” I shake my head, flustered. “I mean . . . I’m glad. Not that you’re going. But that you found me before leaving.”

  He puts his hands in his pockets. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  We’re quiet for a minute. Once more, I smell the faintest trace of bar soap and sweet mechanical oil, and my insides nervously stir.

  “So . . . which way?” He gestures in both directions down the sidewalk. “Where are you going?”

  I point in the opposite direction from where he’ll go to catch his train. “That way. There’s, uh, some unfinished business I have to attend to.”

  Cricket knows, from my hesitation, what I’m talking about. I’m afraid he’ll tell me not to go—or, worse, ask to escort me—but he only pauses. And then he says, “Okay.”

  Trust.

  “You’ll come home soon?” I ask.

  The question makes him smile. “Promise you won’t forget me while I’m gone?”

  I smile back. “I promise.”

  And as I walk away, I realize that I have no idea how I’ll manage to stop thinking about him.

  The dread doesn’t hit until I arrive at his apartment and see the familiar brown stucco walls and pink oleander bush. I glance up at Max’s apartment. The light is on and there’s movement behind the curtain. Doubt creeps in like a poisonous fog. Was it wrong of me to come here? Is it selfish for me to want to apologize if he doesn’t want to hear it?

  I climb the dark stairwell that leads to his front door. I’m relieved when he opens it, and not Johnny, but my relief is shortlived. Max’s amber eyes glare at me, and the scent of cigarettes is strong. No spearmint tonight.

  “I—I heard you were back.”

  Max remains silent.

  I force myself to hold his stony gaze. “I just I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for lying, and I’m sorry for the way things ended. I didn’t treat you fairly.”

  Nothing.

  “Okay. Well. That was it. Bye, Max.”

  I’m on the first step back down when he calls out, “Did you sleep with him?”

  I stop.

  “While we were together,” he adds.

  I turn and look him in the eye. “No. And that’s the truth. We didn’t even kiss.”

  “Are you sleeping with him now?”

  I blush. “God, Max.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. And I’m leaving now.” But I don’t move. This is my last chance to know. “Where have you been for the last month? I called. I wanted to talk with you.”

  “I was staying with a friend.”

  “Where?”

  “Santa Monica.” Something about the way he says it. As if he wants me to ask.

  “A . . . girl?”

  “A woman. And I did sleep with her.” Max slams his door.

  chapter thirty

  Max has always known what to say—and when to say it—to make it hurt the worst. His words stung, but it only took a moment for me to realize why. It’s not because I care that he’s been with another woman. It’s because I can’t believe that I ever loved him. I viewed Max in such a willfully blind way. How could I have ignored his vindictive side? How could I have committed myself to someone whose knee-jerk reaction was always anger and cruelty?

  I apologized. He reacted in his typical fashion. I went to his apartment for absolution, and I got it.

  Good riddance.

  Winter break comes to an end, and with it, so does my grounding. School resumes. I’m surprised when three of my classmates—three people I don’t know well—approach me the first day and say that they’re happy to see I’m dressing like myself again.

  It makes me feel . . . gratified. Appreciated.

  Even Lindsey sits taller and prouder, a combination of Charlie and his friends (who have joined us at lunch) and seeing me colorful again. It’s nice to have more people around. The hard part is waiting for the weekend. I miss that chance of seeing Cricket at any moment. The pale blue glass of my window looks dull without him on the other side.

  Friday is the longest school day in the history of time. I watch the clock with eyeballs like Ping-Pong balls, driving Lindsey crazy. “It’ll come,” she says. “Patience, Ned.” But as the last bell rings, my phone does, too. A text from NAKED TIGER WOMAN:Not coming home this weekend. Unexpected project. On the first week! This sucks.

  My world caves in. But then a second text appears:I miss you.

  And then a third:I hope that’s ok to say now.

  My heart is cartwheeling as I text back:Miss you, too. Miss you even more this weekend.

  !!!!!!!!! = chirping crickets + ringing bells

  We text for my entire walk home, and I’m floating like a pink fluffy cloud. I let him go so that he can work, and he protests for several texts, which makes me even happier. Throughout the night, my phone blinks with new messages—about his roommate Dustin’s hideous friends, about being hungry, about not being able to read his own notes. I fill his phone with messages about Norah repacking her boxes, about Andy’s seasonal clementine pie, about accidently leaving my math book in my locker.

  In the morning, my parents are taken aback when I wake up early and materialize downstairs while they’re still eating breakfast. Andy examines the calendar. “I thought your shift didn’t start until four.”

  “I’d like to go to Berkeley. Just for a few hours before work.”

  My parents trade an unsettled glance as Norah shuffles into the room behind me. “Oh, for God’s sake, let her go. She’ll go anyway.”

  They give me permission. Hourly phone-call check-ins, but I gladly accept. I’m bouncing out the door when a split-second decision has me returning for something tiny that I keep stashed away in my sock drawer. I slip it into my purse.

  I stop by New Seoul Garden, and Lindsey packs a bag of takeout, which causes the entire car—on both of the trains it takes to get to Berkeley—to smell. Whoops. I decide to be brave this time and call him when I reach his dormitory gates, but someone is leaving as I’m arriving, and it’s not necessary. I pass through the landscaped courtyard and the other doors just as easily.

  And then I’m at his door.

  I lift my hand to knock as a girl laughs on the other side. My knuckles land against the wood in a tremble. Is that Jessica? Again?

  The door pops open, and . . . it’s Anna.

  “Hey, space cowgirl!” She’s already taken in the silver fringe dress and my red cowboy boots. For one nightmarish second, I’m consumed by suspicion, but the door swings back and reveals St. Clair. Of course. He and Cricket are sitting against the side of Cricket’s bed. And then Cricket Bell sees me, and the atmosphere lights up.

  My soul lights up in response.

  “Hi.” He springs to his feet. “Hi,” he says again.

  “I was worried that you wouldn’t have time to eat lunch today.” I hold up the takeout as I notice a spread of empty Chinese boxes on the floor. “Oh.”

  Anna gives me a gap-toothed grin. “Don’t worry. He’ll eat what you’ve brought, too.”

  “His stomach is quite tall,” St. Clair says.

  “And yours is so wee,” Anna says. He shoves her legs from his place on the floor, and she shoves his back. They’re like puppies.

  Cricket gestures me forward with both arms. “Here, come in, sit down.”

  I glance around. Every surface is covered.

  “Uh, hold on,” he says. There’s a mound of school papers spread across the surface of his bed, which he bulldozes aside. “Here. Sit here.”

  “We should go,” Anna says. “We just stopped by to feed Cricket and grill him about the Olympics. Did you know they’re in France this year?” She sighs. “I’m dying for a visit.”

  Her boyfriend bites a pinkie nail. “And I’m trying to convince her that if Calliope makes the team, we should consider it a sign and take the
holiday.”

  I smile at Anna. “Lucky you.”

  St. Clair turns toward Cricket and points an accusing finger. “I’m counting on you to ensure your sister wins at Nationals next weekend, all right?”

  My heart selfishly plummets. Next weekend. More time away from Cricket.

  “She only has to get one of the top three spots,” Cricket says. “But I’ll take out an opponent’s kneecap if I have to.”

  Anna prods St. Clair’s shoulder. “Come on. Weren’t you gonna show me that thing?”

  “What thing?”

  She stares at him. He stares back. She cocks her head toward Cricket and me.

  “Ah, yes.” St. Clair stands. “That thing.”

  They rush out. The door shuts, and St. Clair shouts, “Lola, Cricket wants to show you his thing, too-oo!” They’re laughing as their feet echo down the hall.

  Cricket hastily looks away from me and places the carton of Bibimbap in his microwave.

  “Oh. I got something beef-y for you,” I say, because he’s heating the vegetarian dish first.

  He shrugs and smiles. “I know. I saw.”

  I smile, too, and sit on the edge of his bed. “So all three of you are going to France, and I’m staying here? Talk about unfair.” I’m only half kidding.

  “You should come.”

  I snort. “Yeah, my parents would definitely be cool with that.”

  But Cricket looks thoughtful. “You know, Andy loves figure skating. If you had a free ticket, he might bite.”

  “And where, exactly, would I find a free ticket?”

  He sits beside me. “Courtesy of my great-great-great-grandfather Alexander Graham Bell, the world’s richest liar?”

  I stop smiling. “Cricket. I could never accept that.”

  He nudges one of my cowboy boots with one of his pointy wingtips. “Think about it.”

  My foot tingles from the shoe-on-shoe contact. I nudge his shoe back. He nudges mine. The microwave beeps, and he hesitates, unsure if he should get up. I reach out and take his wrist, over his rubber bands and bracelets. “I’m not that hungry,” I say.

  Cricket looks down at my hand.

  I slide my index finger underneath a red bracelet. My finger brushes the skin of his inner wrist, and he releases a small sound. His eyes close. I twine my finger in and out of his bracelets, tying myself against him. I close my eyes, too. My finger guides us onto our backs, and we lie beside each other, quietly attached, for several minutes.

  “Where’s Dustin?” I finally ask.

  “He’ll be back soon. Unfortunately.”

  I open my eyes, and he’s staring me. I wonder how long his eyes have been open. “That’s okay,” I say. “I came here to give you a late Christmas present.”

  His eyebrows raise.

  I smile. “Not that kind of present.” I untangle my finger from his wrist and roll over to grab my purse from his floor. I rummage through it until I find the tiny something taken from my sock drawer. “Actually, it’s more like a late birthday present.”

  “How . . . belated of you?”

  I roll back toward him. “Hold out your hand.”

  He’s smiling. He does.

  “I’m sure you don’t remember anymore, but several birthdays ago, you needed this.” And I place a tiny wrench into his palm. “Lindsey and I went everywhere to find it, but then . . . I couldn’t give it to you.”

  His expression falls. “Lola.”

  I close his fingers around the gift. “I threw away your bottle cap, because it killed me to look at. But I never could throw away this. I’ve been waiting to give it to you for two and a half years.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” he whispers.

  “I’m almost full,” I say. “Thank you for waiting for me, too.”

  chapter thirty-one

  The doorbell rings early the next Saturday. It wakes me from a deep slumber, but I immediately fall back asleep. I’m surprised when I’m being shaken awake moments later. “You’re needed downstairs,” Andy says. “Now.”

  I sit up. “Norah? She was kicked out already?”

  “Calliope. It’s an emergency.”

  I tear out of bed. An emergency with Calliope can only mean one thing: an emergency with Cricket. We’ve been texting, so I know he planned to come home before leaving for Nationals. But his light was off when I got back from work last night. I couldn’t tell if he was there. What if he tried to come home, and something happened along the way? “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.” I throw on a kimono and race downstairs, where Calliope is pacing our living room. Her normally smooth hair is unwashed and disheveled, and her complexion is puffy and red.

  “Is he okay? What happened? Where is he?”

  Calliope stops. She cocks her head, muddled and confused. “Who?”

  “CRICKET!”

  “No.” She’s momentarily thrown. “It’s not Cricket, it’s me. It’s . . . this.” Her hands tremble as she holds out a large brown paper bag.

  I’m so relieved that nothing is wrong with Cricket—and I’m so upset for thinking that something was wrong—that I snatch the bag a bit too harshly. I peer inside. It’s filled with shredded red gauze.

  And then I gasp with understanding. “Your costume!”

  Calliope bursts into tears. “It’s for my long program.”

  I carefully remove one of the shimmering strips of torn fabric. “What happened?”

  “Abby. You’d think she was a dog, not a child. When Mom came down for breakfast, she discovered her playing in . . . this. I’d left my costume downstairs for cleaning. Who would’ve thought she could rip it?” Calliope’s panic grows. “I didn’t even know she was strong enough. And we’re leaving tomorrow! And my seamstress is out of town, and I know you can’t stand the sight of me, but you’re my only hope. Can you fix it in time?”

  As intriguing as it is to be her only hope, there’s no hope to be had. “I’m sorry,” I say. “But I can’t fix this period. It’s ruined.”

  “But you HAVE to do something. There has to be something you can do!”

  I hold up a handful of shreds. “These are barely big enough to blow your nose on. If I sewed them back together—even if I could, which I can’t—it’d look terrible.You wouldn’t be able to compete in it.”

  “Why can’t you wear one of your old costumes?” Nathan interrupts.

  Andy looks horrified. “She can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” Nathan asks. “It’s not the outfit that wins competitions.”

  Calliope shudders, and that’s when I remember her second-place curse. She must have already been racked by nerves, and then to add this on top of it? I do feel sorry for her. “No,” she says. The word barely comes out. “I can’t do that.” She turns to me with her entire body, an eerily familiar gesture. “Please.”

  I feel helpless. “I’d have to make a new one. There’s no—”

  “You could make a new one?” she asks desperately.

  “No!” I say. “There’s not enough time.”

  “Please,” she says. “Please, Lola.”

  I’m feeling frantic. I want her to know that I’m a good person, that I’m not worthless, that I deserve her brother. “Okay. Okay,” I repeat. Everyone stares at me as I stare at the tatters. If only I had bigger pieces to work with. These are so small that they wouldn’t even make a full costume anymore.

  It hits me. “About those old costumes—”

  Calliope moans.

  “No, listen,” I say. “How many do you have?”

  She gives me another familiar gesture, the parted mouth and furrowed brow. The difficult equation face. “I don’t know. A lot. A dozen, at least.”

  “Bring them over.”

  “They don’t all fit anymore! I can’t wear them, I won’t—”

  “You won’t have to,” I reassure her. “We’ll use the parts to make something new.”

  She’s on the verge of hysterics again. “You’re Frankensteining me?”
r />   But I feel calm now that I have a plan. “I won’t Frankenstein you. I’ll revamp you.”

  She’s back in five minutes, and she returns with . . . Cricket. Their arms are piled high with stretchy fabric and sparkly beads. His hair is still sleep-tousled, and he’s not wearing his bracelets. His wrists look naked. Our eyes meet, and his thoughts are just as exposed: gratitude for helping his sister and the unmistakable ache of longing.

  The ache is reciprocated.

  I lead them upstairs to my bedroom. Cricket hesitates at the bottom, unsure if he’s allowed to go up. Andy gives him a prod on the back, and I’m relieved. “We’ll definitely find something in all of this,” I tell Calliope.

  She’s still on edge. “I can’t believe my stupid niece did this to me.”

  My facial muscles twinge, but I’d say the same thing if I were in her situation. “Let’s spread out the costumes and see what we have.”

  “Spread them out where?”

  I almost lose my cool, when I look at my floor and realize she has a point. “Oh. Right.” I shove the piles of discarded shoes and clothing into corners, and Andy and Cricket join in. Nathan waits in the doorway, eyeing the situation—and Cricket—warily. When my floor is clear enough, we lay out her costumes.

  Everyone stares at the spread. It’s a little overwhelming.

  “What’s your music?” Andy asks.

  Our heads snap to look at him.

  “What?” He shrugs. “We need to know what she’s skating to before Lo can design the right costume. What’s her inspiration?”

  Nathan blinks.

  I smile. “He’s right. What are you skating to, Calliope?”

  “It’s a selection from 1968’s Romeo and Juliet.”

  “No idea what that sounds like.” I point her to my laptop. “Download it.”

  “I can do better than that.” She sits in my chair and types her own name into a search engine. One of the first entries is a video from her last competition. “Watch this.”