I trace my thumb around the star.
He looks at me. His eyes are so painfully, exquisitely blue.
And I pull him down into me, and I plant my lips against his, which are loose with surprise and shock. And I kiss Cricket Bell with everything that’s been building inside of me, everything since he moved back, everything since that summer, everything since our childhood. I kiss him like I’ve never kissed anyone before.
He doesn’t move. His lips aren’t moving.
My head jerks back in alarm. I’ve acted rashly, I’ve pushed him too quickly—
He collapses to his knees and yanks me back to his lips.
His kiss isn’t even remotely innocent. There’s passion, but there’s also an urgency verging on panic. He pulls me closer, as close as my dress and my chair allow, and he’s gripping me so tightly that I feel his fingers press through the back of my stays.
I pull back, gasping for breath. Reeling. His breath is ragged, and I place my hands on his cheeks to steady him. “Is this okay?” I whisper. “Are you okay?”
His reply is anguished. Honest. “I love you.”
chapter thirty-four
Moonlight shines into my bedroom and reveals his fragile state. “I didn’t say it so you’d say it back,” he says. “Please don’t say it if you don’t mean it. I can wait.”
I rise and detach my gown from the chair. And then I help him stand, and I place his hands around my waist. I lean onto my tiptoes, rest my fingers against the back of his neck, and kiss him gently. Slowly. His tongue finds mine. Our hearts beat faster and faster, and our kisses grow hotter and hotter, until we burst apart from breathlessness.
I smile, dizzily, and touch my swollen lips. These are not the kisses of a sweet, wholesome boy next door. I draw him closer by his tie and whisper into his ear, “Cricket Bell, I have been in love with you for my entire life.”
He doesn’t say anything. But his fingers tighten against the back of my bodice. I ache to press my body into his, but my dress is making full contact impossible. I wiggle into a slightly better position. He glances down and notices that I’m still wearing a certain blue something, and, this time, it’s his index finger that wraps underneath my rubber band.
I shiver wonderfully. “I’m never taking it off.”
Cricket brushes the delicate skin of my wrist. “It’ll fall off.”
“I’ll ask you for another one.”
“I’ll give you another one.” He smiles and touches his nose to mine.
And then he spasms violently and pushes me away.
Someone is coming upstairs. Cricket grabs the songbird off my desk and shoves it into my hair as Andy pops his head in. My dad gives us a look. “Just making sure everything is okay. It’s getting late. You should get going.”
“We’ll be down in a minute,” I say.
“You’re not even wearing shoes. Or makeup.”
“Five minutes.”
“I’m timing it.” Andy disappears. “And it’ll be Nathan up here next,” he calls out.
“So what do you think?” Cricket asks.
“You’re good. Very, very good.” I poke his chest, giddy with the knowledge that I can touch him now whenever I want. “How did you get so good?”
“It’s safe to say that you’re the one who brings it out of me.” He pokes my stomach. “But I meant your hair.”
I’m beaming as I turn toward the mirror, and . . . “OH.”
The updo looks professional. It’s tall and splendid and elaborate, but it doesn’t overwhelm me. It complements me. “This is . . . it’s . . . perfect.”
“You will never tell anyone I did that on pain of death.” But he’s grinning.
“Thank you.” I pause, and then I look down at my pale blue fingernails. “You know that thing you said about someone being perfect for someone else?”
“Yeah?”
My eyes lift back to his. “I think you’re perfect, too. Perfect for me. And . . . you look amazing tonight.You always do.”
Cricket blinks. And then again. “Did I black out? Because I’ve daydreamed those words a thousand times, but I never thought you’d actually say them.”
“THREE MINUTES,” Andy calls from downstairs.
We break into nervous laughter. Cricket shakes his head to refocus. “Boots,” he says. “Socks.”
I point them out, and while he finishes prepping them, I mascara my lashes, powder my face, and gloss my lips. The makeup is dropped into my purse. I have a feeling I’ll need retouching before I come home. Cricket sweeps me up by my waist and carries me to the bed, and I’m lifting my skirts as he sets me down on the edge. His eyes widen, but it turns into more laughter when he sees how many layers are underneath.
I grin. “There’s more than panniers under here.”
“Just give me your foot.”
From downstairs: “ONE MINUTE.”
Cricket kneels and takes my left foot into his hands. The sock comes on too fast. My boot squeaks as he slides it over my leg. His careful, quick fingers lace it all the way up to my knee, where they linger ever so slightly. I close my eyes, praying for the clock to stop. He tugs and tightens the buckles. And then he repeats everything on the other side.
Somehow, this is the sexiest thing that has ever happened to me.
“I wish I had more feet,” I say.
“We can do this again.” He tightens the last buckle. “Anytime.”
There’s a knock against my door frame as Betsy eagerly bounds toward us. My parents are both here. Cricket helps me stand.
Nathan’s expression softens into astonishment. “Wow.”
I hesitate. “Good wow?”
“Standing ovation wow,” Cricket says.
The way everyone is staring makes me nervous again. I turn toward the mirror, and I see . . . a magnificent gown and beautiful hair and a glowing face. And the reflection smiling back at me is Lola.
“One more,” Andy says. “From the side, so we can see the bird in your hair.”
I turn my head to pose for another picture. “This is the last one.”
“Did you get a shot with the boots?” Nathan asks. “Show us the boots.”
I lift my hem and smile. “Tick tock.”
“I am trying really hard not to use the word ‘fabulous’ right now,” Andy says.
But I feel fabulous. My parents take two more rounds of pictures—one with both of us and one with just Cricket—before we make our escape into the foggy night. Getting to the sidewalk requires folding the panniers, lifting my skirts, and stepping sideways down the stairs. We’re walking to my school, because it’s close.
Also, because I can’t fit into a car.
“Hey! There they are!”
Aleck appears on the porch next door. Abby is on his hip. I wave, and her eyes grow HUGE like when she saw the wild green parrots in the park. “Ohhhh,” she says.
“You guys look great,” Aleck calls down. “Crazy. But great.”
We grin our thanks and say goodbye. Unsurprisingly, the dress makes it difficult to maneuver down the sidewalk—I frequently have to turn to the side, and hand-holding is tricky—but we make our way down the first block.
“Are they still watching?” I ask.
Cricket looks back. “All four of them.”
My stomach is fluttering, but the butterflies are happy and anticipatory. We’re both waiting for the same moment. We finally turn a corner, and Cricket pulls me into the purple-black shadows of the first house. Our mouths crush against each other. My hands rake through his hair, tugging him closer. He tries to back me against the wall, but I bounce off it. Our lips are still touching as we laugh.
“Hold on.” I hoist up the structure of my dress, but I fold it the other way this time, so that the lifted, flat surface is in the back. “Okay. Try again.”
He does it slowly this time, pushing his entire figure against mine, using his hips to press me against the house. It doesn’t matter how much fabric is between us, the solid strength
of his body against mine is electric. Charged. And then our arms are enveloping and our fingers are digging and our mouths are searching and our bodies find this lock.
And if I’m the stars, Cricket Bell is entire galaxies.
The winter wind spirals around us, cold and bitter, but the space between us is hot and sweet. His scent makes me ravenous. I kiss his neck in a downward trail, and I can’t hear it over the wind, but I feel him moan. His fingers easily, gracefully slide through the laces of my stays and work their way around the chemise underneath. They stroke only the smallest square of my back, but the tremor runs the full length of my spine.
Our mouths clasp again. We press against each other harder. His fingers slip out of my stays. They move from my back to my front, and for the first time ever, I wish this dress were less complicated. My next one will be much smaller, a single layer, with a thin silk that will allow me to feel everything.
Cricket breaks away, his eyes wild. “We have to stop. If we don’t stop now . . .”
“I know.” Even though all I want to do is keep going.
But he wraps his arms around me, and he holds me as if I were about to fly away with the wind. He holds me until our hearts stop pounding so furiously. He holds me until we can breathe again.
The fog is still heavy, and the sidewalks are packed, but everyone sees us coming. They part aside with claps and cheers. Our smiles as are full as our hearts. As we promenade down the glittery sidewalks of the Castro, I feel as if we’re in a music video. A woman with a pompadour gives Cricket a fist pump, and the man with the Care Bears tattoo who owns the environmentally friendly dry cleaners gives us both wolf whistles.
Or maybe just Cricket. He does look hot.
We turn the last corner toward my school, and he pulls me into the privacy of another gap between houses. I look up at him teasingly through my eyelashes. “You know, I just reapplied my lip gloss.”
But Cricket is suddenly nervous. Very nervous.
His expression fills me with apprehension. “Is . . . everything okay?” I ask.
He places a hand inside the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “I wanted to give you this for Christmas, and then for New Year’s. But I couldn’t get it ready in time. And then I thought it’d make a better gift for tonight anyway, assuming, of course, that you’d come with me to the dance. But then I couldn’t give it to you in your bedroom, because it was too bright inside, so I had to wait until we were outside, because it’s dark outside—”
“Cricket! What is it?”
He swallows. “Sohereitis, Ihopeyoulikeit.”
And he removes his hand from his pocket and thrusts a slender golden object into my palm. The disk is warm from his body heat. It’s round like a makeup compact, and there’s a tiny button to open it, but it’s deeper than a compact.
And the metal has been etched with stars.
The sound of my heart is loud inside my ears. “I’m almost afraid to open it. It’s perfect as it is.”
Cricket takes it and holds it at my eye level. “Press the button.”
I extend a shaky index finger.
Click.
And then . . . the most wondrous thing appears. The lid pops back, and a miniature, luminous universe rises up and unfolds. A small round moon glows in the center, surrounded by tiny twinkling stars. I gasp. It’s intricate and alive. Cricket places the automaton back into my palm. I cradle it, enchanted, and the stars wink at me lazily.
“The moon is what took so long. I had trouble getting the cycle correct.”
I look up, mystified. “The cycle?”
He points to the real moon. She’s a waxing gibbous—a slice of her left side is dark. I look back down. The little moon is almost entirely illuminated. A slice of its left side is dark. I’m stunned into silence.
“So you won’t forget me when I’m gone,” he says.
I raise my eyes in alarm.
Cricket reacts quickly. “Not gone-gone. I meant during the week, when I’m at school. No more moving. I’m here. I’m wherever you are.”
I let out a relieved breath, one hand clutching my tight stays.
“You haven’t said anything.” He plucks at a rubber band. “Do you like it?”
“Cricket . . . this is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen.”
His expression melts. He enfolds me into his arms, and I rise on my platform tiptoes to reach his lips again. I want to kiss him for the rest of the night, for the rest of our lives. The one. He tastes salty like sea fog. But he tastes sweet, too, like . . .
“Cherries,” he says.
Yes. Wait. Was I talking out loud?
“You taste like cherries. Your hair smells like cherries. You’ve always smelled like cherries to me.” Cricket presses his nose against the top of my head and inhales. “I can’t believe I’m allowed to do that now. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
I bury my face against his chest and smile. Someday I’ll tell him about my teacup.
The sound of laughter and music floats through the night air, swirling and ephemeral. It’s beckoning us. I look up and deep into his eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this? A high school dance? You don’t think it’s . . . kind of lame?”
“Sure, but aren’t they supposed to be?” Cricket smiles. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to one. And I’m happy. I’m really hap—”
And I interrupt his words with another ecstatic kiss. “Thank you.”
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“I am.”
“Are you scared?”
“I’m not.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it. With my other, I hitch up the bottom of my dress. My platform combat boots lead the way. And I hold my head high toward my big entrance, hand in hand with the boy who gave me the moon and the stars.
acknowledgments
This novel should have two sets of acknowledgments: one for Kiersten White and one for everybody else.
Oh, Kiersten! Thank you for the backyard pirate games, the English seaside, the Gothic orchid mysteries, the Icelandic dancing, the French cafés, and for every other adventure we took while I was writing this book. Thank you for keeping me sane, despite the questionable sanity of that last sentence. Thank you for gently, persistently guiding me to The End. (Again and again and again.) And—most of all—thank you for being my friend. I am so grateful to have you in my life.
Kate Schafer Testerman: Remember that whole thing about you being my Dream Agent? I’m happy to announce that the reality is even sweeter. Thank you for being both kind and kick-ass.
Julie Strauss-Gabel: I want to draw glittery hearts around your name. My novels are so much better, so much stronger because of you. Thank you for your guidance, for your patience, and for uncovering the story that I’ve always wanted to tell. Working with you is a pleasure and an honor.
Further thanks to the entire Penguin Young Readers Group. Standing ovations for: Scottie Bowditch, Kristina Duewell, Ashley Fedor, Jeanine Henderson, Lauri Hornik, Anna Jarzab, Liza Kaplan, Doni Kay, Eileen Kreit, Katie Kurtzman, Rosanne Lauer, Linda McCarthy, Irene Vandervoort, and Lisa Yoskowitz.
Thank you to my family, my most enthusiastic cheerleaders: Mom, Dad, Kara, Chris, Beckham, J.D., Fay, and Roger. I am lucky to have you. I love you.
Thank you to the following authors for friendship, for critiquing drafts, and for understanding absolutely everything: Paula Davis, Gayle Forman, Lisa Madigan, Laini Taylor, Natalie Whipple, and Daisy Whitney. You are all goddesses.
Thank you to my amazing blog readers. Thank you to John Green, Nerdfighteria, and Wizard Rock for not forgetting to be awesome. Thank you to Lauren Biehl, Natalie Payne, Lisa Pressley, and Michelle Wolf for that crazy-good vegan brunch. Thank you to Manning Krull and Marjorie Mesnis for the transcontinental hospitality, terrible horror films, and exquisite wine. Thank you to Chris Lane for living on the right street in the right neighborhood in the right city, to Anna Pfaff for letting me borrow her future dog’s name, and to a
nyone working for LGBT equality.
Finally, thank you to Jarrod Perkins. Who recognized the importance of a high school dance. Who flew across the country, swept me off to prom, and wore the matching Chuck Taylors. Who always makes me feel beautiful.You are beautiful, too. Thank you for ten dazzling years of marriage and for many, many more to come. Let’s ask Elvis to renew our vows, okay? We’ll wear our Chucks.
Lola and the Boy Next Door Page 25
