Lola and the Boy Next Door

by Stephanie Perkins

  This has been bothering me, too, but I don’t want to make Andy even more nervous, so I give him a shrug. “Then it won’t be my fault. I only made the outfit. She’s the one who has to skate in it.”

  The rest of us abandon my dress as the camera cuts to her coach Petro Petrov, an older gentleman with white hair and a grizzled face. He’s talking with her at the edge of the rink. She’s nodding and nodding and nodding. The cameraman can’t get a good shot of her face, but . . . her costume looks great.

  I’m on TV! Sort of!

  “You made that in one day?” Norah asks.

  Nathan leans over and squeezes my arm. “It’s phenomenal. I’m so proud of you.”

  Lindsey grins. “Maybe you should have made my dress.”

  We went shopping earlier this week for the dance. I’m the one who found her dress. It’s simple—a flattering cut for her petite figure—and it’s the same shade of red as her Chuck Taylors. She and Charlie have decided to wear their matching shoes.

  “You’re going to the dance?” Norah is surprised. “I thought you didn’t date.”

  “I don’t,” Lindsey says. “Charlie is merely a friend.”

  “A cute friend,” I say. “Whom she hangs out with on a regular basis.”

  She smiles. “We’re keeping things casual. My educational agenda comes first.”

  The commentators begin rehashing Calliope’s journey. About how it’s a shame someone with such natural talent always chokes. They criticize her constant switching of coaches and make a bold statement about a misguided strive for perfection. We boo the television. I feel sadness for her again, for having to live with such constant criticism. But also admiration, for continuing to strive. No wonder she’s built such a hard shell.

  I’m yearning for the network to show her family, which they didn’t do AT ALL during the short program. Shouldn’t a twin be notable? I called him yesterday, because he’s still too shy to call me. He was understandably stressed, but I got him laughing. And then he was the one who encouraged me to invite Norah today.

  “She’s family,” he said. “You should show encouragement whenever you can. People try harder when they know that someone cares about them.”

  “Cricket Bell.” I smiled into my phone. “How did you get so wise?”

  He laughed again. “Many, many hours of familial observation.”

  As if the cameramen heard me . . . HIM. It’s him! Cricket is wearing a gray woolen coat with a striped scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. His hair is dusted with snow and his cheeks are pink; he must have just arrived at the arena. He is winter personified. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  The camera cuts to Calliope, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from shouting at the television to go back to Cricket. Petro takes ones of Calliope’s clenched hands, shakes it gently, and then she glides onto the ice to the roar of thousands of spectators, cheering and waving banners. Everyone in my living room holds their breath as we wait for the first clear shot of her expression.

  “And would you look at that,” the male commentator says. “Calliope Bell is here to fight!”

  It’s in the fierceness of her eyes and the strength of her posture as she waits for her music to begin. Her skin is pale, her lips are red, and her dark hair is pulled into a sleek twist. She’s stunning and ferocious. The music starts, and she melts into the romance of it, and she is the song. Calliope is Juliet.

  “Opening with a triple lutz/double toe,” the female says. “She fell on this at World’s last year . . .”

  She lands it.

  “And the triple salchow . . . watch how she leans, let’s see if she can get enough height to finish the rotation . . .”

  She lands it.

  The commentators drift into a mesmerized hush. Calliope isn’t just landing the jumps, she’s performing them. Her body ripples with intensity and emotion. I imagine young girls across America dreaming of becoming her someday like I once did. A gorgeous spiral sequence leads into a dazzling combination spin. And soon Calliope is punching her arms in triumph, and it’s over.

  A flawless long program.

  The camera pans across the celebrating crowd. It cuts to her family. The Bell parents are hugging and laughing and crying. And beside them, Calliope’s crazy-haired twin is whooping at the top of his lungs. My heart sings. The camera returns to Calliope, who hollers and fist-pumps the air.

  No! Go back to her brother!

  The commentators laugh. “Exquisite,” the man says. “Her positions, her extensions. There’s no one like Calliope Bell when she’s on fire.”

  “Yes, but will this be enough to overcome her disastrous short program?”

  “Well, the curse remains,” he replies. “She couldn’t pull off two clean programs, but talk about redemption. Calliope can hold her head high. This was the best performance of her career.”

  She puts on her skate guards and walks to the kiss-and-cry, the appropriately nicknamed area where scores are announced. People are throwing flowers and teddy bears, and she high-fives several people’s hands. Petro puts his arm around her shoulders, and they laugh happily and nervously as they wait for her scores.

  They’re announced, and Calliope’s eyes grow as large as saucers.

  Calliope Bell is in second place.

  And she’s ecstatic to be there.

  chapter thirty-three

  The wig comes on, and I’m . . . almost happy.

  There’s something wrong with my reflection.

  It’s not my costume, which would make Marie Antoinette proud. The pale blue gown is girly and outrageous and gigantic. There are skirts and overskirts, ribbons and trim, beads and lace. The bodice is lovely, and the stays fit snugly underneath, giving me a flattering figure—the correct body parts are either more slender or more round. My neck is draped in a crystalline necklace like diamonds, and my ears in shimmery earrings like chandeliers. I sparkle with reflected light.

  Is it the makeup?

  I’m wearing white face powder, red blush, and clear red lip gloss. Marie Antoinette didn’t have mascara, so I felt compelled to cheat there. I’ve brushed on quite a bit over a pair of false eyelashes. My gaze travels upward. The white wig towers at two feet tall, and it’s adorned with blue ribbons and pink roses and pink feathers and a single blue songbird. It’s beautiful. A work of art. I spent a really long time making it.

  And . . . it’s not right.

  “I don’t see me,” I say. “I’m gone.”

  Andy is unlacing my buckled platform combat boots, preparing to help me step inside of them. He gestures in a wide circle. “What do you mean? ALL I can see is you.”

  “No.” I swallow. “There’s too much Marie, not enough Lola.”

  His brow furrows. “I thought that was the point.”

  “I thought so, too, but . . . I’m lost. I’m hidden. I look like a Halloween costume.”

  “When don’t you look like a Halloween costume?”

  “Dad! I’m serious.” My panic rapidly intensifies. “I can’t go to the dance like this, it’s too much. Way too much.”

  “Honey,” he shouts to Nathan. “You’d better get in here. Lola is using new words.”

  Nathan appears in my doorway, and he grins when he sees me.

  “Our daughter said”—Andy pauses for dramatic effect—“it’s too much.”

  They burst into laughter.

  “IT’S NOT FUNNY.” And then I gasp. My stays crush my rib cage, making the outburst labored and painful.

  “Whoa.” Nathan is suddenly beside me, his hand on my back. “Breathe. Breathe.”

  I was already nervous about going to the dance and seeing my classmates. At least I won’t be alone—I’m meeting Lindsey and Charlie there—but I can’t go like this. It’d be humiliating. I need Lindsey here; she’d take control. But she’s in the middle of a murder-mystery dinner party, and Charlie has wagered a month of school lunches that he’ll solve the mystery before she does. It’s important to Lindsey th
at she wins.

  “Phone,” I pant. “Give me my phone.”

  Andy hands it to me, and I dial Cricket instead. I’m sent directly to his voice mail, like I have been all afternoon. He called this morning to make sure I was going to the dance, but we haven’t talked since. I keep fantasizing that we can’t get in touch because he’s on an airplane, planning to surprise me by magically appearing at my school during the first slow song, but it’s most likely a snowstorm wreaking havoc with his connection. Tonight is the Exhibition of Champions, and Calliope is performing in it. He has to be there.

  But tomorrow . . . he’ll be home.

  The thought temporarily calms me. And then I see my reflection again, and I realize that tomorrow helps nothing about tonight.

  “O-kaaaay.” Andy pries the phone from my death grip. “We need a plan.”

  “I have a plan.” I tear at the pins holding the wig to my head. “I’ll take it apart. I’ll do a modern reinterpretation of it in my own hair.” I’m flinging the pins to the floor like darts, and my parents step back nervously.

  “That sounds . . .” Nathan says.

  “Complicated,” Andy says.

  I rip off the wig and throw it onto my desk.

  “Are you sure you want to—” Nathan’s words die as I wrench the pink roses from the wig. Half of them tear, and Andy clamps a hand over his mouth. The songbird is yanked off next. “It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll put them in my own hair, it’ll be fine.” I push the rest of the wig to the floor, look up, and cry out. My hair is matted and tangled, bushy and flattened. It’s every bad thing that can happen to someone’s head, all at once.

  Andy gingerly removes another stray pin as I try to tug a brush through the disaster. “Careful!” he says.

  “I’M BEING CAREFUL.” The brush snags in my hair, and I explode into tears.

  Andy spins around to Nathan. “Who do we call? Who do we know who does hair?”

  “I don’t know!” Nathan looks blindsided. “That queen with the big order last week?”

  “No, she’d be working. What about Luis?”

  “You hate Luis. What about—”

  “I’ll wear the wig! I’ll just wear the wig, forget it!” I feel my black mascara trailing through my white face powder as I trip backward, and my right foot lands on the wig. The chicken wire structure underneath it smashes flat.

  My parents gasp. And the last remaining vision I had of entering my winter formal as Marie Antoinette disappears.

  I pull at my stays, forcing room to get air inside my chest. “It’s over.”

  There’s a thud beside my window as someone drops into the room. “Only the wig is over.”

  I lunge toward him instinctively, but my dress is so heavy that I crumple face-first into my rug. My gown falls around me like a deflated accordion. I didn’t realize it was possible to die of embarrassment. But I think it might actually happen.

  “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Cricket drops to his knees. His grip is strong as he helps me sit up. I want to collapse into his arms, but he carefully lets go of me.

  “What . . . what are you . . . ?”

  “I left Nationals early. I know how important the dance is to you, and I wanted to surprise you. I didn’t want you to have to walk in alone. Not that you couldn’t handle it,” he adds. Which is gracious of him, considering my current status. “But I wanted to be there, too. For your big entrance.”

  I’m wiping rug burn and mascara from my cheeks. “My big entrance.”

  My parents are frozen dumbstruck by the sudden appearance. Cricket turns to them apologetically. “I would have used the front door, but I didn’t think you’d hear me. And the window was open.”

  “You’ve always been . . . full of surprises,” Andy says.

  Cricket smiles at him before swiveling back around to me. “Come on. Let’s get you ready for the dance.”

  I turn my head. “I’m not going.”

  “You have to go.” He nudges my elbow. “I came back so that I could take you, remember?”

  I can’t meet his eyes. “I look stupid.”

  “Hey. No,” he says softly. “You look beautiful.”

  “You’re lying.” I lift my gaze, but I have to bite my lip for a moment to keep it from quivering. “I have mascara clown face. My hair screams child-eating storybook witch.”

  Cricket looks amused. “I’m not lying. But . . . we should clean you up,” he adds.

  He takes my arms and begins to help me stand. Nathan steps forward, but Andy grabs one of his shoulders. My parents watch Cricket rearrange the skirt of my dress to get me safely to my feet. He leads me to the bathroom attached to my bedroom. Nathan and Andy follow at a careful distance. Cricket turns on the sink’s tap and searches the bottles and tubes on my countertop until he finds what he’s looking for. “Aha!”

  It’s makeup remover.

  “Calliope uses the same kind,” he explains. “She’s been known to need this after particularly brutal performances. For the, uh,”—he gestures in a general way toward my face—“same reason.”

  “Oh God.” I blink at the mirror. “It looks like I’ve been vomited on by an inkwell.”

  He grins. “A little bit. Come on, the water is warm.”

  We scoot around awkwardly until I’m positioned in front of the sink, and then he drapes a towel over the front of my dress. I—very difficultly—lean over. His fingers slide through my hair and hold it back while I scrub. His physical presence against me is soothing. The face powder, mascara, false eyelashes, and blush disappear. I dry my face, and my eyes find his in the mirror. My skin is bare and pink.

  He stares back with unguarded desire.

  Nathan clears his throat from the doorway, and we startle. “So what are we going to do about your hair?” he asks.

  My heart falls. “I guess I’ll wear a different wig. Something simple.”

  “Maybe . . . maybe I can help,” Cricket says. “I do have some experience. With hair.”

  I frown. “Cricket. You’ve had that same hair your entire life. Don’t tell me you style it that way yourself.”

  “No, but . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sometimes I help Cal with hers before competitions.”

  My eyebrows raise.

  “If you’d asked me yesterday, I would have said it was a seriously embarrassing skill for a straight guy.”

  “You’re the best,” I say.

  “Only you would think that.” But he looks pleased.

  It’s in this moment that I finally register what he’s wearing. It’s a handsome skinny black suit with a shiny sheen. The pants are too short—on purpose, of course—exposing his usual pointy shoes and a pair of pale blue socks that match my dress exactly.

  And I totally want to jump him.

  “Tick tock,” Nathan says.

  I scooch past Cricket, back into my bedroom. He gestures to my desk chair, so I lift my skirts up and around the back, and I find a way to sit down. And then he finger-combs my hair. His hands are gentle and quick, the movements smooth and assured. I close my eyes. The room is silent as his fingertips untangle the strands from roots to tips and run loose throughout my hair. I lean back into him. It feels like my entire body is blossoming.

  He leans over and whispers in my ear, “They’ve gone.”

  I look up, and, sure enough, my parents have left the door ajar. But they’re gone. We smile. Cricket resumes his work, and I nestle into his hands. My eyes close again. After a few minutes, he clears his throat. “I, um, have something to tell you.”

  My eyes remain shut, but my eyebrows lift in curiosity. “What kind of something?”

  “A story,” he says.

  His words become dreamlike, almost hypnotic, as if he’s told this to himself a hundred times before. “Once upon a time, there was a girl who talked to the moon. And she was mysterious and she was perfect, in that way that girls who talk to moons are. In the house next door, there lived a boy. And the boy watched the girl grow more and more pe
rfect, more and more beautiful with each passing year. He watched her watch the moon. And he began to wonder if the moon would help him unravel the mystery of the beautiful girl. So the boy looked into the sky.

  “But he couldn’t concentrate on the moon. He was too distracted by the stars.”

  I hear Cricket remove a rubber band from his wrist, which he uses to hold a twist of my hair.

  “Go on,” I say.

  I hear the smile in his voice. “And it didn’t matter how many songs or poems had already been written about them, because whenever he thought about the girl, the stars shone brighter. As if she were the one keeping them illuminated.

  “One day, the boy had to move away. He couldn’t bring the girl with him, so he brought the stars. When he’d look out his window at night, he would start with one. One star. And the boy would make a wish on it, and the wish would be her name.

  “At the sound of her name, a second star would appear. And then he’d wish her name again, and the stars would double into four. And four became eight, and eight became sixteen, and so on, in the greatest mathematical equation the universe had ever seen. And by the time an hour had passed, the sky would be filled with so many stars that it would wake his neighbors. People wondered who’d turned on the floodlights.

  “The boy did. By thinking about the girl.”

  My eyes open, and my heart is in my throat. “Cricket . . . I’m not that.”

  He stops pinning my hair. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve built up this idea about me, this ideal, but I’m not that person. I’m not perfect. I am far from perfect. I’m not worth such a beautiful story.”

  “Lola. You are the story.”

  “But a story is just that. It isn’t the truth.”

  Cricket returns to his work. The pink roses are added. “I know you aren’t perfect. But it’s a person’s imperfections that make them perfect for someone else.”

  Another pin slides into place as I catch sight of the back of his hand. A star. Every star he’s drawn onto his skin has been for me. I glance at my doorway to make sure it’s still empty, and I grab his hand.

  He looks at it.