Lola and the Boy Next Door

“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.

I’m not sure why I didn’t tell him I’m visiting Cricket. I honestly don’t think Andy would mind. Maybe I’m afraid my parents would mention it to Max. I mean, I will tell Max eventually, when it’s really, really, really clear that Cricket and I are just friends.

When we’re comfortable around each other.

I exit at the Downtown Berkeley station and head toward campus. Thanks to conversations with St. Clair, I know what dormitory Cricket lives in. I’ve printed out a map online. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find, even though it’s been a while. I used to drag Lindsey here sometimes on weekends to go shopping on Telegraph Avenue, but since last summer—and since Max—we haven’t left the city together.

The buildings in this town look more California, less San Francisco. They’re pretty, but they’re newer and squarer. Instead of gingerbread Victorians with stained glass and peeling paint, they’re made from stable brick. And there are beautiful trees everywhere, lining streets that are wider and cleaner and quieter. It’s busy enough, though, and everyone walking or bicycling around me is college-aged.

I push back my shoulders to appear more confident.

It’s weird to think about Cricket living here. My memories of him are so connected to the lavender house in the Castro that it’s difficult to picture him anywhere else. But that might be his drugstore. And that might be his taqueria. And that might be where he buys his Cal Golden Bears memorabilia!

No. It’s impossible to picture Cricket in a T-shirt with a school mascot on it.

Which is why we are friends.

It takes another fifteen minutes to walk the long, sloping road to the Foothill Student Housing, and my mind can’t help but add the time to St. Clair and Anna’s tally. It’s obscene how much time they spend getting to each other every day. And I’ve never heard them complain, not once. I can’t even believe how often Cricket returns home. Lugging his laundry, no less!

An unsettling thought occurs to me.

His laundry bag. It’s never full. Cricket has a large wardrobe for a guy; there’s no way he’s bringing all of his dirty clothes home. Which means he’s doing some of his laundry here. Which means . . . what? The laundry is an excuse to come home? But he doesn’t need an excuse to hang out with Calliope. She wants him there. So the excuse must have been crafted to strengthen a different reason for coming home.

Calliope’s voice rings inside my head: The special trips home to see you.