Lola and the Boy Next Door

by Stephanie Perkins

  “Nice dress,” Marta Velazquez said. “Is it your mommy’s?”

  I was wearing a vintage polka-dot swing dress—two sizes too large that I’d tightened with safety pins—over a longsleeved striped shirt and jeans rolled greaser-style. I wanted to look pretty for my birthday.

  I no longer felt pretty.

  Cricket turned around, confused. And then . . . he did something that changed everything. He stepped deliberately in front of them and blocked my view. “Don’t listen to them. I like how you dress.”

  He liked me just as I was.

  I sat down quietly on my pizza box. “It’s our turn.”

  But what I ached to say was, I need you.

  On the walk home, he had me joking and laughing about the people who’d tormented me for years. I finally realized how absurd it was that I’d worried so much about what my classmates thought about me. It’s not like I wanted to look like them.

  “Cricket!” Andy said, when he saw us approaching. “You’re coming over for the birthday dinner, right?”

  I looked at Cricket hopefully. He put his hands in his pockets. “Sure.”

  It was simple and perfect. My only guests were Nathan, Andy, Lindsey, and Cricket. We ate Margherita pizza, followed by an extravagant cake shaped like a crown. I ate the first piece, Cricket ate the biggest. Afterward, I walked my friends outside. Lindsey gave me a nudge in the back and disappeared.

  Cricket shuffled his feet. “I’m not great with gifts.”

  My heart leaped. But instead of a kiss, he removed a fistful of watch parts and candy wrappers from his pocket. Cricket sifted through the pile until he found a soda-bottle cap, metallic pink. He held it up. “Your first.”

  Perhaps most girls would’ve been disappointed, but I am not most girls. We’d recently seen a belt made out of bottle caps in a store window, and I’d said that I wanted to make one. “You remembered!”

  Cricket smiled in relief. “I thought it was a good one. Colorful.” And as he placed it in my open palm, I reread the message scrawled onto the back of his hand for the hundredth time that day: FUSE NOW.

  This was the moment.

  I gripped the cap and stepped forward. His breathing quickened. So did mine.

  “You promised you’d be there!”

  We jumped apart. Calliope was on the porch next door, seemingly on the verge of tears. “I needed you, and you weren’t there.”

  An unmistakable flash of panic in his eyes. “Oh God, Cal. I can’t believe I forgot.”

  She was wearing a delicate cardigan, but the way she crossed her arms was anything but soft. “You’ve been forgetting a lot of things lately.”

  “I’m sorry. It slipped my mind, I’m so sorry.” He tried to shake the wrappers and watch parts back into his pocket, but they spilled onto my porch.

  “Smooth, Cricket.” She looked at me and scowled. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time.”

  But she was still talking to him.

  “Thanks for dinner,” he mumbled, shoving everything back into his pockets. “Happy birthday.” He left without looking at me. From their porch, Calliope was still glaring. I felt slapped in the face. Ashamed. I didn’t have anything to be ashamed about, but she had that effect. If she wanted you to feel something, you would.

  Later, Cricket told me that he was supposed to have gone to some meeting. He was vague about it. After that, it was as if we’d taken a small step backward. We started school. He hung out with Lindsey and me, while Calliope made new friends. There was a quiet tension between the twins. Cricket didn’t talk about it, but I knew he was upset.

  One Friday after school, he showed me a video of the Swiss Jolly Ball—a mechanical wonder he’d seen while visiting a museum in Chicago. I hadn’t been inside his house since Calliope’s icy behavior at the beginning of summer. I’d hoped this was an excuse to go into his bedroom, but his laptop was in the living room. He sat on one side of a love seat, leaving space to sit beside him. Was it an invitation? Or a gesture of kindness, in that he was offering me the room’s larger couch?

  WHY WAS THIS SO HARD?

  I took a chance and sat beside him. Cricket pulled up the video, and I scooted closer, under the guise of seeing it better. I couldn’t concentrate, but as the machine’s silver ball shot through tunnels, set off whistles, and zoomed across tracks, I laughed in delight anyway. I inched closer until I was in the dip between the cushions. I smelled the faintest twinge of his sweat, but it wasn’t bad. It was very far from bad. And then the side of my hand brushed the side of his, and my heart collapsed.

  He was very still.

  I cleared my throat. “Are you doing anything special for your birthday tomorrow?”

  “No.” He moved his hand into his lap, flustered. “Nothing. I’m not doing anything.”

  “Okay . . .” I stared at his hand.

  “Actually, Calliope has some skating thing. So it’ll be another afternoon of bad rink food, skating vendors, and squealing girls.”

  Was that an excuse to avoid me? Had I been wrong this whole time? I went home upset and called Lindsey. “No way,” she said. “He likes you.”

  “You didn’t see him. He’s been acting so weird and cagey.”

  But the next morning, I met up with Lindsey to find a present for him. I wasn’t ready to give up. I couldn’t give up. I knew he needed an obscurely sized wrench for a project, and I also knew he was having trouble finding it online. We spent the entire day hunting the city’s specialty shops, and as I walked home that night so proud of procuring one, I felt a nervous hope again. And then I saw it.

  A party in full swing.

  The Bell house was loud and packed, and there were strings of tiki lights hanging in their bay windows. This wasn’t a party that happened at the last second. It was a planned party. A planned party that I had not been invited to.

  I froze there, devastated, holding the tiny wrench and taking in the spectacle. A pack of girls rushed past me and up the stairs. How had the twins made so many new friends so quickly? The girls knocked on the door, and Calliope opened it and greeted them with happy laughter. They moved past her and into the house. And that’s when she saw me, staring up from the sidewalk.

  She paused, and then made a face. “So what? Too good for our party?”

  “Wh-what?”

  “You know, after spending so much time with my brother, it seems like the least you could do is pop your head in and wish him a happy birthday.”

  My mind reeled. “I wasn’t invited.”

  Calliope’s expression changed to surprise. “But Cricket said you couldn’t come.”

  Explosion. Pain. “I . . . he didn’t ask. No.”

  “Huh.” She eyed me nervously. “Well. Bye.”

  The lavender door slammed shut. I stared at it, burning with hurt and humiliation. Why didn’t he want me at his party? I stumbled inside my house, yanked my curtains closed, and burst into racking sobs. What happened? What was wrong with me? Why didn’t he like me anymore?

  His light turned on at midnight. He called my name.

  I tried to focus on the catastrophic blow inside my chest. He called my name again. I wanted to ignore him, but how could I? I opened my window.

  Cricket stared at his feet. “So, um, what did you do tonight?”

  “Nothing.” My voice was curt as I threw back his own words. “I didn’t do anything.”

  He looked upset. It only made me despise him more, for trying to make me feel guilty. “Good night.” I started to close my window.

  “Wait!” He yanked at his hair, pulling it taller. “I—I just found out that I’m moving.”

  It felt as if I’d been knocked in the skull. I blinked, startled to discover fresh tears. “You’re leaving? Again?”

  “Monday.”

  “Two DAYS from now?” Why couldn’t I stop crying? I was such an idiot!

  “Calliope is going back to her last coach.” He sounded helpless. “It’s not working out here.”

  “
Is everything not working out here?” I blurted. “There’s nothing you want to say to me before you leave?”

  Cricket’s mouth parted, but it remained silent. His difficult equation face. A full minute passed, maybe two. “At least we have that in common,” I finally said. “There’s nothing I want to say to you either.”

  And I slammed my window closed.

  chapter seven

  He was doing it right there in the open!” I say. “I’m serious, Charlie was admiring your derriere in chemistry.”

  Lindsey brushes it off. “Even if he was, which I sincerely doubt, you know my policy. No guys—”

  “Until graduation. I just thought that since it was Charlie . . . and since his eyes did follow you across the room . . .”

  “No.” And she takes a ferocious bite of her almond-butterand-jelly sandwich to end the conversation. I hold up my hands in a gesture of peace. I know better than to keep arguing, even if she has had a silent crush on Charlie Harrison-Ming ever since he won twice as many points as her in last year’s Quiz Bowl.

  Our first week as juniors at Harvey Milk Memorial High has been as expected. The same boring classes, the same nasty mean girls, and the same perverted jerks. At least Lindsey and I have lunch together. That helps.

  “Hey, Cleopatra. Wanna take a ride down my Nile?”

  Speaking of jerks. Gregory Figson bumps knuckles with a muscled friend. I’m wearing a long black wig with straight bangs, a white dress I made from a bedsheet, chunky golden jewelry, and—of course—ancient Egyptian eyes drawn in kohl.

  “No,” I say flatly.

  Gregory grabs his chest with both hands. “Nice pyramids,” he says, and they swagger away, laughing.

  “Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more disgusting.” I set down my veggie burger, appetite eliminated.

  “And as if I needed another reason to wait,” Lindsey says. “High school boys are morons.”

  “Which is why I don’t date high school boys. I date men.”

  Lindsey rolls her eyes. Her main reason for waiting to date is that she believes it’ll get in the way of her agenda. Agenda is her term, not mine. She thinks guys are a distraction from her educational goals, so she doesn’t want to date until she’s firmly settled in post-high-school life. I respect her decision, even though I’d rather wear sweatpants in public than give up my boyfriend.

  Or give up my first opportunity to attend the winter formal. It’s for upperclassmen only, and it’s still months away, but I’m thrilled about my Marie Antoinette dress, which I’ve already started collecting materials for. Shimmering silk dupioni and crisp taffeta. Smooth satin ribbon. Delicate ostrich feathers and ornate crystal jewelry. I’ve never attempted a project this complex, this huge, and it’ll take my entire autumn to create.

  I decide to begin when I get home. It’s Friday, and for once I don’t have to work. Also, Amphetamine is playing in a club tonight that doesn’t accept anyone under twenty-one. And won’t allow Max to sneak me in.

  From everything I’ve read online, I need to start with the undergarments.

  I’ve already bought a ton of fabric for the dress, but the costume still has to be built from the inside out so that when I take the measurements for the actual gown, I can take them over the bulky stays (an eighteenth-century word for corset) and the giant panniers (the oval-shaped hoop skirts Marie and her ladies wore) .

  I search for hours for instructions on making historically accurate panniers and come up with zilch. Unless I want to make them with hula hoops, and I don’t, I’ll have to go to the library for more research. Searching for stays brings more success. The diagrams and instructions are overwhelming, but I print out several pages and begin taking measurements and creating a pattern.

  I’ve been sewing for three years, and I’m pretty decent. I started with the small stuff, like everyone does—hemming, A-line skirts, pillowcases—but quickly moved on to bigger items, each more complex than the last. I’m not interested in making what’s easy.

  I’m interested in making what’s beautiful.

  I lose myself in the process: tracing out patterns on tissue paper, fitting them together, retracing, and refitting. Nonsewers don’t realize how much problem solving goes into garment making, and beginners often quit in frustration. But I enjoy the puzzle. If I looked at this dress as one massive thing, it would be too overwhelming. No one could create such a gown. But by breaking it into tiny, individual steps, it becomes something I can achieve.

  When my room finally grows too dark, I’m forced to rise from the floor and plug in my twinkle lights. I stretch my sore muscles and stare at my window.

  Will he come home this weekend?

  The idea fills me with unease. I don’t understand why he’s been asking Andy and St. Clair questions about me. There are only three possible solutions, each more improbable than the last. Maybe he’s not making friends at school and, for some twisted reason, has decided I’d make a decent pal again. I mean, he’s come home for the last two weekends. Obviously no one is interesting enough to keep him in Berkeley. Or maybe he feels bad about how things ended between us, and he’s trying to make up for it. Clear his conscience.

  Or . . . maybe . . . he likes me. In that other way.

  I was fine before he came back, perfectly happy without this complication. It would’ve been better if he’d ignored me. Calliope and I haven’t talked yet; there’s no reason why Cricket and I should have to either. I drift toward my window, and I’m surprised to discover striped curtains hanging in his room.

  And then his light turns on.

  I yank my curtains closed. My heart pounds as I back against the wall. Through the gap between curtain fabrics, I watch a silhouette that is undeniably Cricket Bell toss two bags to his floor—one shoulder bag and one laundry bag. He moves toward our windows, and dread lurches inside of me. What if he calls my name?

  There’s a sudden brightness as he pulls back his own curtains. His body changes from a dark shadow into a fully fleshed human. I slink back farther. He pauses there, and then startles as another figure enters his room. I can barely hear the sound of a girl talking. Calliope.

  I can’t hide forever. My curtains are thick, and I need to trust them. I take a deep breath and step away, but I trip backward over my project and tear a pattern. I curse. Laughter comes from next door, and for one panicked second, I think they’ve witnessed my clumsy maneuver. But it’s paranoia talking. Whatever they’re laughing about has nothing to do with me. I hate that they can still get to me like that.

  I know what I need. I call him, and he picks up just before his voice mail.

  “HEY,” Max says.

  “Hi! How is it tonight? When are you guys going on?” The club is loud, and I can’t hear his response. “What?”

  “[MUFFLE MUFFLE] AFTER ELEVEN [MUFFLE].”

  “Oh. Okay.” I don’t have anything to add. “I miss you.”

  “[MUFFLE MUFFLE MUFFLE. MUFFLE.]”

  “What? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you!”

  “[MUFFLE MUFFLE] BAD TIME [MUFFLE].”

  I assume he’s saying he has to go. “Okay! I’ll see you tomorrow! Bye!” A click on the other end, and he’s gone. I should have texted him. But I don’t want to now, because I don’t want to bother him. He doesn’t like talking before shows.

  The call leaves me feeling more cold than comforted. The laughter continues next door, and I resist the urge to throw my sewing shears at Cricket’s window to make them shut up. My phone rings, and I answer eagerly. “Max!”

  “I need you to tell Nathan to come get me.”

  Not Max.

  “Where are you?” I’m already hustling downstairs. Nathan is crashed in front of the television, eyes half closed, watching Antiques Roadshow with Heavens to Betsy. “Why can’t you tell him yourself?”

  “Because he’s gonna be pissed, and I can’t deal with pissed right now.” The voice is cranky and exhausted.

  I stop dead in my tracks. “Not again.”
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  “Landlord changed my locks, so I was forced to break into my apartment. My own apartment. They’re calling it an incident.”

  “Incident?” I ask, and Dad’s eyes pop open. I thrust out my phone to him without waiting for a response, disgusted. “Norah needs you to bail her out.”

  Nathan swears and grabs my cell. “Where are you? What happened?” He pulls answers from her as he collects his car keys and throws on his shoes. “I’m taking your phone, okay?” he says to me. “Tell Andy where I’m going.” And he’s out the door.

  This is not the first time my birth mother has called us from a police station. Norah has a long record, and it’s always for stupid things like shoplifting organic frozen enchiladas or refusing to pay fines from the transit authority. When I was young, the charges were usually public intoxication or disorderly conduct. And believe me, a person has to be pretty darn intoxicated or disorderly to get arrested in this city.

  Andy takes the news silently. Our relationship with Norah is hard on everyone, but perhaps it’s hardest on him. She’s neither his sister nor his mother. I know a part of him wishes we could ditch her entirely. A part of me wishes that, too.

  When I was little, the Bell twins asked me why I didn’t have a mom. I told them that she was the princess of Pakistan—I’d overheard the name on the news and thought it sounded pretty—and she gave me to my parents, because I was a secret baby with the palace gardener, and her husband, the evil prince, would kill us if he knew I existed.

  “So you’re a princess?” Calliope asked.

  “No. My mom is a princess.”

  “That means you’re a princess, too,” Cricket said, awed.

  Calliope narrowed her eyes. “She’s not a princess. There’s no such thing as evil princes or Pakistan.”

  “There is, too! And I am!” But I still remember the hot rush of blood I felt when they came back later that afternoon, and I realized I’d been caught.