Lola and the Boy Next Door

sweet and kind and honest. Cricket Bell has integrity. And I don’t deserve him. But . . . I want him anyway.

Is it possible to earn someone?

He doesn’t return for nearly two hours. The moment he’s back, I raise my window again. Cricket raises his. Exhaustion has settled between his brows, and his shoulders are sagging. Even a lock of hair has flopped onto his forehead. I’ve never seen Cricket’s hair fall down. “I’m sorry.” His voice is tired. He keeps it low, conscious that the parental threat has not passed. “For last night. For this morning, for tonight. Your parents didn’t come up, did they? I’m such an id—”

“Stop, please.You don’t have to apologize.”

“I know. Our rule.” He’s glum.

“No. I mean, don’t apologize for last night. Or this morning. I wanted you there.”

He raises his head. Once again, the intensity of his eyes makes my heart stutter.

“I—I’m the one who’s sorry,” I continue. “I knew something was going on with your family, and I didn’t ask. It didn’t even cross my mind.”

“Lola.” His brow deepens farther. “You’re going through a difficult time. I would never expect you to be thinking about my family right now. That would be crazy.”

Even when I’m in the wrong, he puts me in the right. I don’t deserve him.

I hesitate.

Earn him.

“So . . . what’s going on? Unless you don’t want to tell me. I’d understand.”

Cricket leans his elbows against his windowsill and looks into the night sky. The star on his left hand has faded from washing, but it’s still there. He waits so long to answer that I wonder if he heard me. A foghorn bleats in the distance. Mist creeps into my room, carrying the scent of eucalyptus. “My brother left his wife last week. Aleck took Abby, and they’re staying here until he figures out what to do next. He’s not in great shape, so we’re kinda taking care of them both right now.”

“Where’s his wife? Why did he take the baby?”

“She’s still at their apartment. She’s going through . . . a lifestyle crisis.”

I wrap my arms around myself. “What does that mean? She’s a lesbian?”

“No.” Cricket pries his eyes from the sky to glance at me, and I see that he’s uncomfortable. “She’s much younger than Aleck. They married, got pregnant, and now she’s rebelling against it. This new life. She stays out late, parties. Last weekend . . . my brother found out that she’d cheated on him.”

“I’m so sorry.” I think about Max. About Cricket in my bedroom. “That’s awful.”

He shrugs and looks away. “It’s why I finally came back. You know, to help out.”

“Does that mean you’re still fighting with Calliope?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Cricket runs his fingers through his dark hair, and the part that had flopped down sticks back up. “Sometimes she makes things so difficult, more than they have to be. But I guess I’m doing the same thing right now.”

I allow the thought to hang, and my mind returns to Max. It fills with shameful, retired fantasies about our future. “Do you think . . . did Aleck’s wife do that because she got married too young?”

“No, they got married too wrong. The only person in my family who thought it would last was Aleck, but it was clear she wasn’t the one.”

The one. There it is again.

“How did you know? That she wasn’t the one for him?”

Now he’s staring at his hands, slowing rubbing them together. “They just didn’t have that . . . natural magic.You know? It never seemed easy.”

My voice grows tiny. “Do you think things have to be easy? For it to work?”

Cricket’s head shoots up, his eyes bulging as they grasp my meaning. “NO. I mean, yes, but . . . sometimes there are . . . extenuating circumstances. That prevent it from being easy. For a while. But then people overcome those . . . circumstances . . . and . . .”

“So you believe in second chances?” I bite my lip.

“Second, third, fourth. Whatever it takes. However long it takes. If the person is right,” he adds.

“If the person is . . . Lola?”

This time, he holds my gaze. “Only if the other person is Cricket.”

chapter twenty-eight

Cricket isn’t the only thing I have to earn. I have to earn back my parents’ trust.

I’m a good daughter, I am. I have plenty of faults, but I keep up with my homework, I do my chores, I rarely talk back, and I like them. I’m one of the few people my age who actually cares what her parents think. So I’m dressing like someone responsible (all black, very serious), and I studied like crazy for my finals, and I’m doing whatever they ask. Even when it’s awful. Like taking Heavens to Betsy for her late-night walk when it’s forty degrees outside, which, by the way, I have done every night this week.

I want my parents to remember that I’m good, so they’ll also remember that Cricket is good. Better than good. He came over to formally apologize to them, though I don’t think it helped. His name is still banned from our household. Even after Mrs. Bell told Andy what was happening with Aleck, and my parents were tut-tutting for the family over dinner, they skipped over Cricket’s name. It was, “Calliope and . . . hmph.”

At least Mr. and Mrs. Bell don’t know what happened. My parents didn’t call them. I probably have Andy to thank for that, maybe even Norah. She’s been surprisingly cool about all of this. “Give them time,” she says. “Don’t rush anything.”

Which is what I know I need anyway. Time.

The memory of Max is still bitter and strong. I didn’t realize it was possible to have such an ugly breakup when you were the one who did the breaking up. And I’m pretty sure I’m the one who did the breaking up. At least, I did it first.

And then he did it better.

I feel terrible about how it ended, and I feel terrible for not being honest with him while we were together. I want to apologize. Maybe it would get rid of these bad feelings, and I’d be able to move on. Maybe then it wouldn’t sting whenever my mind summons his name. I’ve left several messages on his voice mail, but he hasn’t called me back. And he’s still gone from the city. I even went to Amoeba to ask Johnny.

Max’s last words haunt me. Am I nothing to him? Already?

I’m not ready for Cricket, and his hands are full anyway. With Aleck too depressed to give Abigail his attention, she’s decided that Cricket is the next best thing. He’s home for winter break—we’re both on winter break—and I rarely see him without Abby hanging from his arms or wrapped around his legs. I recognize that feeling, that need, inside of her. I wish there was someone I could hold on to.

Lindsey helps. She calls every day, and we talk about . . . not Max. Not Cricket. Though she did guiltily announce that she’s attending the winter formal. She asked Charlie, and of course he said yes. I’m happy for her.

A person can be sad and happy at the same time.

I’ve moved my Marie Antoinette dress and wig and panniers into Nathan’s office, aka Norah’s room. I don’t like looking at them. Maybe I’ll finish the dress later, for Halloween next year. Lindsey can wear it. But I’m still not going to the dance, and at least I know that was the right decision. The last few weeks of school were miserable.

“Who died and turned you Goth?” Marta sneered, turning up her nose at my all-black ensemble. Her friends, the trendiest clique at Harvey Milk Memorial, joined in, and soon everyone was accusing me of being a Goth, which—even though it’s not true—would have been fine. Except then the Goth kids accused me of being a poseur.

“I’m not a Goth. And I’m not in mourning,” I insisted.

At least my new wardrobe helps me blend into my neighborhood. In the winter, the Castro turns into a sea