Lola and the Boy Next Door

by Stephanie Perkins

  But yes. My father Nathan is biologically my uncle.

  My parents have tried to help Norah. She’s hasn’t lived on the streets in years—before her apartment, she was in a series of group homes—but she still isn’t exactly the most reliable person I know. The best I can say is that at least she’s sober. And I only see Snoopy every now and then, whenever he rolls into town. He’ll call my parents, we’ll take him out for a burger, and then we won’t hear from him again for months. The homeless move around more than most people realize.

  I don’t like to talk about my birth parents.

  “I like what you’ve done with your room,” Cricket says suddenly. “The lights are pretty.” He gestures toward the strands of pink and white twinkle lights strung across my ceiling. “And the mannequin heads.”

  I have shelves running across the top of my bedroom walls, lined with turquoise mannequin heads. They model my wigs and sunglasses. The walls themselves are plastered with posters of movie costume dramas and glossy black-and-whites of classic actresses. My desk is hot pink with gold glitter, which I threw in while the paint was drying, and the surface is buried underneath open jars of sparkly makeup, bottles of half-dried nail polish, plastic kiddie barrettes, and false eyelashes.

  On my bookcase, I have endless cans of spray paint and bundles of hot glue sticks, and my sewing table is collaged with magazine cutouts of Japanese street fashion. Bolts of fabric are stacked precariously on top, and the wall beside it has even more shelves, crammed with glass jars of buttons and thread and needles and zippers. Over my bed, I have a canopy made out of Indian saris and paper umbrellas from Chinatown.

  It’s chaotic, but I love it. My bedroom is my sanctuary.

  I glance at Cricket’s room. Bare walls, bare floor. Empty. He acknowledges my gaze. “Not what it used to be, is it?” he asks.

  Before they moved, it was as cluttered as my own. Coffee canisters filled with gears and cogs and nuts and wheels and bolts. Scribbled blueprints taped up beside star charts and the periodic table. Lightbulbs and copper wire and disassembled clocks. And always the Rube Goldberg machines.

  Rube was famous for drawing those cartoons of complex machines performing simple tasks. You know, where you pull the string so that the boot kicks over the cup, which releases the ball, which lands in the track, which rolls onto the teeter-totter, which releases the hammer that turns off your light switch? That was Cricket’s bedroom.

  I give him a wary smile. “It’s a little different, CGB.”

  “You remember my middle name?” His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

  “It’s not like it’s easy to forget, Cricket Graham Bell.”

  Yeah. The Bell family is THAT Bell family. As in telephone. As in one of the most important inventions in history.

  He rubs his forehead. “My parents did burden me with unfortunate nomenclature.”

  “Please.” I let out a laugh. “You used to brag about it all the time.”

  “Things change.” His blue eyes widen as if he’s joking, but there’s something flat behind his expression. It’s uncomfortable. Cricket was always proud of his family name. As an inventor, just like his great-great-great-grandfather, it was impossible for him not to be.

  Abruptly, he lurches backward into the shadows of his room. “I should catch the train. School tomorrow.”

  The action startles me. “Oh.”

  And then he bounds forward again, and his face is illuminated by pink and white twinkle lights. His difficult equation face. “See you around?”

  What else can I say? I gesture at my window. “I’ll be here.”

  chapter five

  Max picks his black shirt off his apartment floor and pulls it on. I’m already dressed again. Today I’m a strawberry. A sweet red dress from the fifties, a long necklace of tiny black beads, and a dark green wig cut into a severe Louise Brooks bob. My boyfriend playfully bites my arm, which smells of sweat and berry lotion.

  “You okay?” he asks. He doesn’t mean the bite.

  I nod. And it was better. “Let’s get burritos. I’m craving guacamole and pintos.” I don’t mention that I also want to leave before his roommate, Amphetamine’s drummer, comes home. Johnny’s a decent guy, but sometimes I feel out of my depth when Max’s friends are around. I like it when it’s just the two of us.

  Max grabs his wallet. “You got it, Lo-li-ta,” he sings.

  I smack his shoulder, and he gives me his signature, suggestive half grin. He knows I hate that nickname. No one is allowed to call me Lolita, not even my boyfriend, not even in private. I am not some gross old man’s obsession. Max isn’t Humbert Humbert, and I am not his nymphet.

  “That’s your last warning,” I say. “And you just bought my burrito.”

  “Extra guacamole.” He seals his promise with a deep kiss as my phone rings. Andy.

  My face flushes. “Sorry.”

  He turns away in frustration but says softly, “Don’t be.”

  I tell Andy we’re already at the restaurant, and we’ve just been walking around. I’m pretty sure he buys it. The mood killed, Max and I choose a place only a block away. It has plastic green saguaro lights in the windows and papier-mâché parrots hanging from the ceiling. Max lives in the Mission, the neighborhood beside mine, which has no shortage of amazing Mexican restaurants.

  The waiter brings us salty chips and extra-hot salsa, and I tell Max about school, which starts again in three days. I’m so over it. I’m ready for college, ready to begin my career. I want to design costumes for movies and the stage. Someday I’ll walk the red carpets in something never seen before, like Lizzy Gardiner when she accepted her Oscar for The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert in a dress made out of golden credit cards. Only mine will be made out of something new and different.

  Like strips of photo-booth pictures or chains of white roses or Mexican lotería cards. Or maybe I’ll wear a great pair of swashbuckling boots and a plumed hat. And I’ll swagger to the stage with a saber on my belt and a heavy pistol in my holster, and I’ll thank my parents for showing me Gone with the Wind when I had the flu in second grade, because it taught me everything I needed to know about hoop skirts.

  Mainly, that I needed one. And badly.

  Max asks about the Bell family. I flinch. Their name is an electric shock.

  “You haven’t mentioned them all week. Have you seen . . . Calliope again?” He pauses on her name. He’s checking for accuracy, but, for one wild moment, I think he knows about Cricket.

  Which would be impossible, as I have not yet told him.

  “Only through windows.” I trace the cold rim of my mandarin Jarritos soda. “Thank goodness. I’m starting to believe it’ll be possible to live next door and not be forced into actual face-to-face conversation.”

  “You can’t avoid your problems forever.” He frowns and tugs on one of his earrings. “No one can.”

  I burst into laughter. “Oh, that’s funny coming from someone whose last album had three songs about running away.”

  Max gives a small, amused smile back. “I’ve never claimed I’m not a hypocrite.”

  I’m not sure why I haven’t told him about Cricket. The timing just hasn’t felt right. I haven’t seen him again, but I’m still a mess of emotions about it. Our meeting wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but it was . . . unsettling. Cricket’s uncharacteristic ease compared to my uncharacteristic unease combined with the knowledge that I’ll be seeing him again. Soon.

  He didn’t even mention the last time we saw each other. As if it didn’t matter. More likely, it didn’t affect him. I’ve spent so many dark nights trying to forget about Cricket. It doesn’t feel fair that he could have forgotten about me.

  It’s too much to explain to Max.

  And I don’t want him to think Cricket Bell means something to me that he doesn’t. That chapter of my life is over.

  It’s over, unlike my conversation with Lindsey the next day, the same one we have every time we talk now. “I lik
e Max,” I say. “He likes me. What’s wrong with that?”

  “The law,” she says.

  It’s the last Friday of our summer break, and we’re squished together on my tiny front porch. I’m spray-painting a pair of thrift-store boots, and she’s scoping out the lavender Victorian. Lindsey supports my relationship for the most part, but she’s relentless when it comes to this one sticking point.

  “He’s a good guy,” I say. “And our relationship is what it is.”

  “I’m not saying he isn’t a good guy, I’m merely reminding you that there could be consequences to dating him.” Her voice is calm and rational as her eyes perform a quick scan of the neighborhood before returning to the Bell house.

  Lindsey never stops examining her surroundings. It’s what she does.

  My best friend is pretty, bordering on plain. She wears practical clothing and keeps her appearance clean. She’s short, has braces, and has had the same haircut since the day we met. Black, shoulder length, tidy bangs. The only thing that might seem out of place is her well-worn, well-loved pair of red Chuck Taylors. Lindsey was wearing them the day she tripped a suspect being chased by the police on Market Street, and they’ve since become a permanent wardrobe fixture.

  I laugh. Sometimes it’s the only option with her. “Consequences. Like happiness? Or love? You’re right, who’d want a thing like tha—”

  “There he is,” she says.

  “Max?” I swivel mid-spray, barely missing her sneakers in my excitement.

  “Watch it, Ned.” She slides aside. “Not everyone wants shoes the color of a school bus.”

  But she’s not talking about my boyfriend. My heart plummets to discover Cricket Bell waiting to cross the street.

  “Oh, man.You got it on the porch.”

  “What?” My attention jerks back. Sure enough, there’s an unsightly splotch of yellow beside the newspaper I’d spread out to protect the wood. I grab the wet rag I brought outside, for this very purpose, and scrub. I groan. “Nathan’s gonna kill me.”

  “Still hasn’t forgiven you for dyeing the grout in his bathroom black?”

  The splotch smears and grows larger. “What do you think?”

  She’s staring at Cricket again. “Why didn’t you tell me he was so . . .”

  “Tall?” I scour harder. “Unwanted?”

  “. . . colorful.”

  I look up. Cricket is striding across the street, his long arms swinging with each step. He’s wearing skinny mailmanesque pants with a red stripe down the side seam. They’re a tad short—purposely, I can tell—exposing matching red socks and pointy shoes. His movements suddenly become exaggerated, and he hums an unrecognizable tune. Cricket Bell knows he has an audience.

  There’s a familiar clenching in my stomach.

  “He’s coming over,” Lindsey says. “What do you want me to do? Kick him in the balls? I’ve been dying to kick him in the balls.”

  “Nothing,” I hiss back. “I’ll handle it.”

  “How?”

  I cough at her as he leaps up the stairs with the ease of a gazelle. “Lola!” His smile is ear to ear. “Funny meeting you here.”

  “Funny that. You being on her porch and all,” Lindsey says.

  “Your house?” Cricket stumbles back down the top steps and widens his eyes dramatically. “They all look so similar.”

  We stare at him.

  “It’s good to see you again, Lindsey,” he adds after a moment. Now there’s a touch of genuine embarrassment. “I just passed your parents’ restaurant, and it was packed. That’s great.”

  “Huh,” she says.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurt.

  “I live here. Not here-here, but there-here.” He points next door. “Occasionally. On the weekends. Well, my parents told me they set up my bed, so I assume it’s a go.”

  “They did. I saw them move it in yesterday,” I say, despite myself. “There still aren’t any curtains on your window,” I add, not wanting him to think that I’ve been purposefully watching his room.

  One hand fiddles with the bracelets on his other. “Now, that’s a shame. Promise you won’t laugh when you see me in my underwear.”

  Lindsey’s eyebrows raise.

  “I cut a pathetic figure undressed,” he continues. “Dressed, too, for that matter. Or half dressed. One sock on, one sock off. Just a hat. No hat. You can stop me at any time, you know. Feel free to tell me to shut up.”

  “Shut up, Cricket,” I say.

  “Thanks. Did you dye your hair? Because you weren’t blond last weekend. Oh, it’s a wig, isn’t it?”

  “Ye—”

  “Hey, cool shoes. I’ve never seen boots that color before. Except rain boots, of course, but those aren’t rain boots.”

  “No—”

  The front door opens, and Andy appears in a white apron. He’s holding a flour-dusted wooden spoon as if it were an extension of his arm. “Could I persuade you ladies to sample—”

  Cricket pops back onto the porch and stretches his lengthy torso between Lindsey and me to shake my dad’s hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Nolan. How are you?”

  Lindsey mouths, What’s he been smoking?

  I’m as baffled as she is. He’s like Cricket times ten.

  “I’m good.” Andy glances at me, trying to determine if he should throw him off our property. I give my dad the smallest shake of my head, and he turns his attention back to Cricket. Which, frankly, would be impossible not to do, considering the sheer energy radiating off him. “And you? Still inventing mysterious and wondrous objects?”

  “Ah.” Cricket hesitates. “There’s not really a market for that sort of thing these days. But I hear you’re running a successful pie operation?”

  My father looks flattered that the news has spread. “I was just about to ask the girls if they’d mind testing a new pie. Would you like a slice?”

  “I would love a slice.” And he springs ahead of Andy, who follows him inside.

  The porch is silent. I turn to Lindsey. “What just happened?”

  “Your father invited the former love of your life in for pie.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

  We’re quiet for a moment.

  “There’s still time for an excuse,” she says. “We don’t have to go in there.”

  I sigh. “No, we really do.”

  “Good. Because that guy demands observation.” And she marches inside.

  I take another look at the paint splotch and find that it’s dried. Crap. I spray the last side of my shoes, move the project where it won’t get tripped on, and head inside for whatever torture awaits me. They’re standing around one of the islands in our kitchen. We have an unusually large kitchen for the city, because my parents removed the dining room to add space for Andy’s business. Everyone already has a plate of pie and a glass of milk.

  “Unbelievable.” Cricket wipes the crumbs from his lips with his long fingers. “I would have never thought to put kiwi in a pie.”

  Andy spots me hovering in the doorway. “Better hurry before this one eats it all.” He nods toward his guest. Outwardly, my dad is collected, but I can tell that inside he’s gloaty beyond belief. How quickly one’s allegiance changes under the influence of a compliment. I smile as if none of this is a big deal. But I’m freaking out. Cricket Bell. In my kitchen. Eating kiwi pie. And then I take the empty space beside him, and I’m stunned again by his extraordinary height. He towers over me.

  Andy points his fork at the other half of the green pie. “Have the rest, Cricket.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t.” But his brightened eyes suggest otherwise.

  “I insist.” My dad nudges the dish toward him. “Nathan’s always complaining that I’m trying to make him fat, so it’ll be better if it’s gone before he comes home.”

  Cricket turns to me with his entire body—head, shoulders, chest, arms, legs. There are no half gestures with Cricket Bell. “Another slice?”

  I motion
toward the piece in front of me, which I haven’t even started.

  “Lindsey?” he asks.

  She shakes her head. “I’m not exactly pie-deprived, visiting here so often.”

  Why is he here? Isn’t there some campus party he should be at? The more I think about it, the more incensed I become. How dare he show up and expect me to be friendly? People can’t just do that.

  “How’s your family?” Andy asks.

  Cricket swallows. “They’re good. My parents are the same. Dad’s a little too exhausted, Mom’s a little too enthusiastic. But they’re good. And Cal is busy training, of course. It’s a big year with the Olympics coming up. And Aleck is married now.”

  “Is he still composing?” Andy asks. Alexander, or Aleck as dictated by the family nickname, is the twins’ older brother. He was already in high school when Calliope started training, so he escaped most of the family drama. I never knew him well, but I do vividly recall the complicated piano concertos that used to glide through our walls. All three Bells could be considered prodigies in their fields.

  “And teaching,” Cricket confirms. “And he had his first child last year.”

  “Boy or girl?” Lindsey asks.

  “A girl. Abigail.”

  “Uncle . . . Cricket,” I say.

  Lindsey and Andy both let out an uncontrolled snort, but Andy instantly looks horrified for doing it. He glares at me. “Lola.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Cricket says. “It’s completely ridiculous.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “No, please. Don’t be.” But there’s a catch in his voice, and he says it so quickly that I look at him in surprise. For the briefest moment, our eyes lock. There’s a flash of pain, and he turns away. He hasn’t forgotten.

  Cricket Bell remembers everything.

  My face burns. Without thinking, I push away my plate. “I need to . . . get ready for work.”