Lola and the Boy Next Door

“Loooo-laaaa. Beautiful Lola.” Franko’s eyes are red and dilated. As usual.

I dig through the box-office drawers, throwing dry pens and dusty instruction manuals to the floor. “Have you seen the ink cartridges for the tickets?”

“No, but have you seen the popcorn today? It’s so . . . aerodynamically inclined. I think I might’ve eaten some. Do I have kernels in my teeth?”

“No kernels,” I snap.

“I think I have kernels in my teeth. Like, right between my front teeth.” He stands, and his tongue explores his own mouth in a disgusting form of self–French kissing. “The strings are beautiful tonight.”

“Sure. The strings.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t cut one, but if I did, I’d say . . . that’s a beautiful string.”

Seriously, if he doesn’t shut up soon, I’m strangling him. My patience is at an all-time low. I wave my arms at St. Clair, who is ripping tickets tonight. There’s no one around, so he strolls over. “For the love of God, you two have to switch jobs,” I say.

“You’re beautiful, St. Clair,” Franko says.

“Everyone is beautiful to you when you’re high.” He sits in Franko’s seat. “Scat.”

Franko lumbers away.

“Thank you,” I say. “I just . . . can’t handle that right now.”

He gives me a full-bodied shrug. “Right now or for the entire month of November?”

“Don’t even,” I warn. But it’s true. Since my complete and total humiliation with Cricket two weeks ago—and his subsequent disappearance from my life—I’ve been extremely unpleasant. I’m hurt, and I’m angry. No, I’m furious, because it’s my stupid fault. I threw myself at him. What does he think of me now? Obviously, not much. I’ve called him twice and sent three apology texts, but he’s ignored them all.

So much for Mr. Nice Guy.

“Mr. Nice Guy?” St. Clair asks. “Who’s that?”

Oh, no. I’m talking out loud again. “Me,” I lie. “Mr. Nice Guy is gone.”

He sighs and checks the clock on the wall. “Fantastic.”

“I’m sorry.” And I mean it. My friends—Lindsey, Anna, and St. Clair—have all been patient with me. More than I deserve. I told Lindsey what happened, but St. Clair, and through him, Anna, must have heard some version of something from Cricket. I’m not sure what. “Thank you for taking Franko’s place. I appreciate it.”

The European shrug again.

We work quietly for the next hour. As the minutes tick by, I feel more and more guilty. It’s time to change my attitude. At least around my friends. “So,” I say during the next customer lull. “How did it go with Anna’s family? Didn’t her mom and brother visit for Thanksgiving?”

He smiles for the first time since coming in here. “I wooed them off their feet. It was an excellent visit.”

I grin and then give him a nod with exaggerated formality. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he says with equal formality. “They stayed with my mum.”

“That’s . . . weird.”

“Not really. Mum is cool, easy to get along with.”

I raise a teasing eyebrow. “So where did YOU guys stay?”

“Where we always stay.” He stares back solemnly. “In our very separate dormitories.”

I snort.

“What about you?” he asks. “Did you spend Thanksgiving with the boyfriend?”

“Uh, no.” I stumble through an explanation about Norah being difficult and Max being busy, but it sounds hollow and forced. We’re silent for a minute. “How do you . . .” I’m struggling to find the right words. “How do you and Anna make it work?You make it seem easy.”

“Being with Anna is easy. She’s the one.”

The one. It stops my heart. I thought Max was the one, but . . . there’s that other one.

The first one.

“Do you believe in that?” I ask quietly. “In one person for everyone?”

Something changes in St. Clair’s eyes. Maybe sadness. “I can’t speak for anyone but myself,” he says. “But, for me, yes. I have to be with Anna. But this is something you have to figure out on your own. I can’t answer that for you, no one can.”

“Oh.”

“Lola.” He rolls his chair over to my side. “I know things are shite right now. And in the name of friendship and full disclosure, I went through something similar last year. When I met Anna, I was with someone else. And it took a long time before I found the courage to do the hard thing. But you have to do the hard thing.”

I swallow. “And what’s the hard thing?”

“You have to be honest with yourself.”

“Lola. You look . . . different.”

The next afternoon and I’m on Max’s doorstep, sans wig and fancy makeup. I’m wearing an understated skirt and a simple blouse, and my natural hair is loose around my shoulders. “Can I come in?” I’m nervous.

“Of course.” He moves aside, and I enter.

“Is Johnny here?”

“No, I’m alone.” Max pauses. “Do your dads know you’re here?”

“They don’t have to know where I am all the time.”

He shakes his head. “Right.”

I wander toward his couch, pick up the Noam Chomsky book on his coffee table, flip through the pages, and set it back down. I don’t know where to begin. I’m here for answers. I’m here to find out if he’s the one.

Max is staring at me strangely, about something other than my sudden presence. It makes me even more uncomfortable. “What?” I ask. “What’s that look?”

“Sorry. You . . . look a little young today.”

My heart wrenches. “Is that bad?”

“No. You look beautiful.” And he gives me that gorgeous half smile. “Come here.” Max collapses onto his beat-up couch, and I climb into his arms. We sit in silence. He waits for me to speak again, aware that I’m here for a reason. But I can’t form the words. I thought being here would be enough. I thought I’d know when I saw him.

Why is the truth so hard to see?

I trace his spiderwebs. Max closes his eyes. I lightly brush the boy in the wolf suit in the crook of his elbow. He releases a moan, and our lips find each other. He pulls me onto his lap. I’m helpless against the current.

“Lolita,” he whispers.

And my entire body freezes.

Max doesn’t notice. He lifts the edge of my shirt, and it’s enough to wake me up. I yank it back down. He startles. “What? What’s the matter?”

I can barely keep my voice steady. “Which one, Max?”

“Which one, what?” He’s unusually dazed. “What are we talking about?”

“Which Dolores Nolan are you in love with? Are you in love with me, Lola? Or are you in love with Lolita?”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means. You call me Lolita, but you get weird when I’m not dressed up, when I look my age. So which one? Do you like the older me or the younger me?” A worse thought occurs. “Or do you only like me because I’m young?”

Max is furious. He pushes me off his lap and stands up. “You really want to have this conversation? Right now?”

“When would be a better time? When, Max?”

He swipes up his lighter from the side table. “I thought we’d been over the age thing. I thought it was