Lola and the Boy Next Door

by Stephanie Perkins

  Calliope crossed her arms. “We know the truth. Our parents told us.”

  “Does your mom really not have a house?” Cricket asked. “Is that why you can’t live with her?”

  It was one of the most shameful moments of my childhood. So when my classmates began asking, I kept it simple: “I don’t know who she is. I’ve never met her.” I became a regular adoption story, a boring one. Having two fathers isn’t an issue here. But a few years ago, Cricket and I were watching television when he turned to me and unexpectedly asked, “Why do you pretend like you don’t have a mom?”

  I squirmed. “Huh?”

  Cricket was messing with a paper clip, bending it into a complicated shape. “I mean, she’s okay now. Right?” He meant sober, and she had been for a year. But she was still Norah.

  I just looked at him.

  And I could see him remembering the past. The Bells had heard my screaming birth mother for years, whenever she’d show up wasted and unannounced.

  He lowered his eyes and dropped the subject.

  I’m grateful that my genetics don’t bother Max. His father is a mean drunk who lives in a dangerous neighborhood of Oakland, and he doesn’t even know where his mother lives. If anything, Norah makes my relationship with Max stronger. We understand each other.

  I leave Andy and head back upstairs. Through my window, I notice Calliope has left Cricket’s bedroom. He’s pacing. My torn pattern mocks me. The sumptuous, pale blue fabrics stacked on my sewing table have lost their luster. I touch them gently. They’re still soft. They still hold the promise of something better.

  I’m determined to make up for last night. “Today is all about sparkling.”

  Heavens to Betsy cocks her head, listening but not understanding. I place a rhinestone barrette in my pale pink wig. I’m also wearing a sequined prom gown that I’ve altered into a minidress, a jean jacket covered in David Bowie pins, and glittery false eyelashes. I scratch behind Betsy’s ears, and then she trots behind me out of my room. We run into Andy on the stairs, carrying up a basket of clean laundry.

  “My eyes!” he says. “The glare!”

  “Très funny.”

  “You look like a disco ball.”

  I smile and push past. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “When is Max bringing you home?”

  “Later!”

  Nathan is waiting at the bottom. “When, Dolores? A specific time would be helpful.”

  “Your hair is doing the swoopy thing.” I set down my purse to fix it. Nathan and I have the same hair—thick, medium brown, and with a strange wave in the front that never behaves. No one ever doubts that Nathan and I are related. We also share the same wide brown eyes and childish grin. When we allow ourselves to grin. Andy is more slender than Nathan and keeps his prematurely gray hair cropped short. Still, despite his hair and despite his additional nine years on this planet, everyone thinks Andy is younger because he’s the one who’s always smiling. And he wears funny T-shirts.

  “When?” Nathan repeats.

  “Um, four hours?”

  “That’s five-thirty. I’ll expect you home no later.”

  I sigh. “Yes, Dad.”

  “And three phone-call check-ins.”

  “Yes, Dad.” I don’t know what I did to deserve the world’s strictest parents. I must have been seriously hardcore evil in a past life. It’s not like I’m Norah. Nathan didn’t get home until after midnight. Apparently, her lock was changed because she hasn’t been paying rent, and she caused a scene by smashing in her front window with a neighbor’s deck chair to get back inside. Nathan is going to visit her landlord today to discuss back payments. And that whole broken window situation.

  “All right, then.” He nods. “Have a good time. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  I hear Andy as I’m walking out the front door. “Honey, that threat doesn’t work when you’re gay.”

  I laugh all the way down to the sidewalk. My heavy boots, tattooed with swirls of pink glitter to match my wig, leave a trail of fairy dust as I tramp. “You’re like a shooting star,” a voice calls from the porch next door. “Sparkly.”

  My cheer is immediately rendered null and void.

  Cricket leaps down his stairs and joins me on the sidewalk. “Going somewhere special?” he asks. “You look nice. Sparkly. I already said that, didn’t I?”

  “You did, thanks. And I’m just going out for a few hours.” It’s not like he’s earned full truths or explanations. Of course, now I feel ashamed for thinking that, so I add with a shrug, “I might hit up Amoeba Records later.”

  Why does he make me feel guilty? I’m not doing anything wrong. I don’t owe him anything. I shake my head—more at myself than at him—and move toward the bus stop. “See ya,” I say. I’m meeting Max in the Upper Haight. He can’t take me, because he’s picking up a surprise first. A surprise. I have no idea what it is; it could be a gumball for all I care. The fact that I have a boyfriend who brings me surprises is enough.

  I feel Cricket’s stare. A pressure against the back of my neck. Truthfully, I wonder why he’s not following me. I turn around. “What are you doing today?”

  He closes the distance between us in three steps. “I’m not doing anything.”

  I’m uncomfortable again. “Oh.”

  He scratches his cheek, and the writing on his hand instructs him to CARPE DIEM. Seize the day. “I mean, I have some homework. But it won’t take long. Only an hour. Two at the most.”

  “Right. Homework.” I’m about to say something else equally awkward when I hear the grunt of my approaching bus. “That’s me!” I sprint away. Cricket shouts something, but I can’t hear it over the blast of exhaust as the bus sags against the curb. I grab a seat next to a bony woman in a paisley smock reading The Tibetan Book of the Dead.

  I glance out the window. He’s still watching me. Our eyes lock, and this time, his smile is shy. For some reason . . . it makes me smile back.

  “Ooo,” the woman beside me says. “You’re sparkly.”

  chapter eight

  I should’ve wished for the gumball.

  “It’ll be great for gigs,” Max says, with more animation than usual. “You know how bad it was, loading our stuff into three separate cars. The parking in this city, for one thing. Impossible.”

  “Excellent! Right! Exactly!”

  It’s a van. Max bought a van. It’s big, and it’s white, and it’s a van. As in, it’s not a ’64 Chevy Impala. As in, my boyfriend traded in his car to buy a van.

  He walks around it, admiring its . . . what? Wide expanse? “You know we’ve wanted to tour the coast. Craig knows some guys in Portland, Johnny knows some guys in L.A. This is what we needed. We can do it now.”

  “Touring! Wow! Great!”

  TOURING. Extended periods of time without Max. Sultry, slinky women in other cities flirting with my boyfriend, reminding him of my inexperience. TOURING.

  Max stops. “Lola.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re doing the girl thing. Saying you’re happy, when you’re not.” He crosses his arms. The spiderwebs tattooed onto his elbows point at me accusingly.

  “I’m happy.”

  “You’re pissed, because you think when I leave, I’ll meet someone. Someone older.”

  “I’m not angry.” I’m worried. And how much do I hate that we’ve had this conversation before, so he knows exactly what I’m thinking? “I’m . . . surprised. I just liked your old car, that’s all. But this is good, too.”

  He raises a single brow. “You liked my car?”

  “I loved your car.”

  “You know.” Max backs me into its side. The metal is cool against my spine. “Vans are good for other things.”

  “Other things?”

  “Other things.”

  Okay. Maybe this whole van situation isn’t a complete loss. My hands are in his yellow-white bleached hair, and our lips are smashed against each other, when there’s a loud, rude “Go
t any change, man?”

  We break apart to find a guy in head-to-toe dirty patchwork corduroy glaring at us.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “No need to be sorry.” He glowers at me underneath his white-boy dreadlocks. “I’m only fucking starving.”

  “ASSHOLE,” Max shouts as the guy slumps off.

  San Francisco is positively crawling with homeless. I can’t walk from home to school without running into a dozen. They make me uneasy, because they’re a constant reminder of my origins, but usually I can ignore them. Look past them. Otherwise . . . it’s too exhausting.

  But in the Haight, the homeless are passive-aggressive jerks.

  I don’t like coming here, but Max has friends who work in the overpriced vintage clothing boutiques, head shops, bookstores, and burrito joints. Despite the psychedelic graffiti and the bohemian window displays, Haight Street—once the mecca of sixties free love—is undeniably rougher and dirtier than the rest of the city.

  “Hey. Forget that guy,” Max says.

  He sees that I need cheering, so he leads me to the falafel place where we had our first date. Afterward, we wander into a drag shop to try on wigs. He laughs as I pose in an absurd purple beehive. I love his laugh. It’s rare, so whenever I hear it, I know I’ve earned it. He even lets me put one on his head, a blond Marilyn. “Wait till Johnny and Craig see you,” I say, referring to his bandmates.

  “I’ll tell them I decided to grow it out.”

  “Rogaine works,” I say in my best Max voice.

  “Is that another old man joke?” Max laughs again as he tosses back my pale pink wig. “We should go. I told Johnny I’d meet him at three-thirty.”

  I tuck my real hair underneath it. “Because you don’t see him enough at home.”

  “You rarely see him,” Max says.

  Johnny Ocampo—Amphetamine’s drummer, Max’s roommate—works at Amoeba Records, the one thing I do love about this neighborhood. Amoeba is a vast concrete haven of rare vinyl, band posters, and endless rows of CDs in color-coded genre tabs. There’s still something to be said for music you can hold in your hands.

  “I was only teasing. Besides,” I add, “you never hang out with Lindsey.”

  “Come on, Lo. She’s nosy and immature. It’s weird between us.”

  His words are true, but . . . ouch. Sometimes lying is the polite thing to do. I frown. “She’s my best friend.”

  “I’d just rather spend time with you.” Max takes my hand. “Alone.”

  We’re quiet as we enter Amoeba. Johnny, a pudgy but muscled Filipino, is in his usual place behind the information desk, which is raised as if the guys behind it hold the end-all truth about Good Musical Taste and Knowledge. Johnny and Max exchange jerks of the head in acknowledgment as Johnny finishes up with a customer. I wave hello to Johnny and disappear into the merchandise.

  I listen mainly to rock, but I browse everything, because I never know when I’ll discover something that I didn’t know I liked. Hip-hop, classical, reggae, punk, opera, electronica. Nothing grabs my attention today, so I wander over to rock. I’m browsing the Ps and Qs, when the small, invisible hairs on the back of my neck rise. I look up.

  And there he is.

  Cricket Bell is standing front and center, searching for something. Someone. And then his gaze locks onto mine, and his face alights like the stars. He smiles—a full smile that reaches all the way to his eyes—and it’s sweet and pure and hopeful.

  And I know what is about to happen.

  My palms break into a sweat. Don’t say it. Oh, please God, don’t say it. But this traitorous prayer follows: Say it. Say it.

  Cricket weaves easily around the other customers as if we’re the only two people in the store. The music over the loudspeakers changes from a sparse pop song into a swelling rock symphony. My heart pounds faster and faster. How badly I once wished for this moment. How badly I wish it would end now.

  How badly I wish it would continue.

  He stops before me, tugging at his bracelets. “I—I hoped I’d find you here.”

  Blood rushes to my cheeks. NO. This feeling isn’t real. It’s an old emotion, stirred up to torment and confuse me. I hate that. I hate him!

  But it’s like I only hate Cricket because I don’t hate Cricket. I cut my eyes away, down to the Phoenix album in my hands. “I told you I was coming.”

  “I know. And I couldn’t wait any longer, I have to tell you—”

  The panic rises, and I grip the French band tighter. “Cricket, please—”

  But his words pour forth in a torrent. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I’m not the guy I used to be, I’ve changed—”

  “Cricket—” I look back up, feeling faint.

  His blue eyes are bright. Sincere. Desperate. “Go out with me tonight. Tomorrow night, every ni—” The word cuts off in his throat as he sees something behind me.

  Cigarettes and spearmint. I want to die.

  “This is Max. My boyfriend. Max, this is Cricket Bell.”

  Max jerks his head in a small nod. He heard everything, there’s no way he didn’t.

  “Cricket is my neighbor.” I turn to Max. “Was my neighbor. Sort of is again.”

  My boyfriend squints, almost imperceptibly, as his mind sorts this information. It’s the exact opposite of Cricket, who is at a complete loss to hide his emotions. His face is stricken, and he’s backing up. I doubt he even realizes he’s doing it.

  Max’s expression changes again, just slightly. He’s figured out who Cricket is. He knows Cricket Bell must be related to Calliope Bell.

  And he knows that I’ve purposely excluded him from our conversations.

  Max places an arm around my shoulders. The gesture probably looks casual to Cricket, but Max’s muscles are strained. He’s jealous. The thought should make me happy, but I only see Cricket’s embarrassment. I wish I didn’t care what he thought.

  Does this mean we’re even? Is this what being even feels like?

  The air between us is as thick as bay fog. I have to act, so I give Cricket a warm smile. “It was nice running into you. See you later, okay?” And then I lead Max away. I can tell my boyfriend wants to say something, but as usual, he’s keeping his thoughts to himself until they’re formed in the exact way he wants them. We walk stiffly, hand in hand, past his friend at the information desk.

  I don’t want to look back, but I can’t help it.

  He’s staring at me. Staring through me. For the first time ever, Cricket Bell looks small. He’s disappearing right before my eyes.

  chapter nine

  It’s embarrassing to admit, but whenever Max and I are on a date, I want to stay out longer, walk farther, talk louder, so more people will see us together. I want to run into every classmate who’s ever teased me for wearing pointed elf shoes or beaded moccasins, because I know they’ll take one look at Max with his dark eyebrows, inked arms, and bad attitude and know that I’m doing something right.

  Usually, I’m bursting with pride. But as we trudge back to his new van, I don’t notice the face of anyone we pass. Because Cricket Bell asked me out. Cricket Bell asked me out. What am I supposed to do with that information?

  Max unlocks the passenger-side door and holds it open for me. Neither of us has spoken since we left Amoeba. I mumble a thanks and get in. He climbs in the driver’s side, turns the key in the ignition, and then says, “I don’t like him.”

  The flatness of his tone makes my stomach turn. “Cricket? Why?”

  “I just don’t.”

  I can’t reply. I don’t know what I’d say. He doesn’t break the silence again until we pass the Castro Theatre’s landmark neon sign, only blocks from my house. “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”

  I look at my hands. “He’s not important.”

  Max waits, jaw tense.

  “He just hurt me, that’s all. It was a long time ago. I don’t like talking about him.”

  He turns to me, struggling to stay calm. “He hurt you?
”

  I sink into my seat, wanting anything but this conversation. “No. Not like that. We used to be friends, and we had a falling-out, and now he’s back, and I’m running into him everywhere—”

  “You’ve run into him before.” He’s staring at the road again. His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel.

  “Just . . . in the neighborhood. He’s not important, okay, Max?”

  “Seems like a glaring omission to me.”

  I shake my head. “Cricket means nothing to me, I swear.”

  “He wants to take you out every night, and you expect me to believe there’s nothing going on?”

  “There’s not!”

  The van jerks to a halt in front of my house, and Max pounds on the steering wheel. “Tell me the truth, Lola! Why can’t you tell me the truth for once?”

  My eyes sting with tears. “I am telling the truth.”

  He stares at me.

  “I love you.” I’m getting desperate. He has to believe me. “I don’t love him, I don’t even like him! I love you.”

  Max closes his eyes for what feels like an eternity. The muscles in his neck are tense and rigid. At last, they relax. He opens his eyes again. “I’m sorry. I love you, too.”

  “And you believe me?” My voice is tiny.

  He tilts my chin toward his and answers me with a kiss. His lips press hard against mine. I push back even harder against his. When we break apart, he looks deep into my eyes. “I believe you.”

  Max speeds away in his van, the Misfits blasting in a musical cloud of dust behind him. I slump. So much for my day off.

  “Who was that?”

  I startle at the sharp voice behind me. And then I turn to face her for the first time in two years. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she’s wearing warm-up clothes.Yet she still manages to look more beautiful than I ever will.

  “Hey, Calliope.”

  She stares at me as if to say, Why haven’t you answered my question?

  “That was my boyfriend.”

  Calliope looks surprised. “Interesting,” she says, after a moment. And I can tell she is, in fact, interested. “Did my brother find you? He went out looking for you.”