Lola and the Boy Next Door

by Stephanie Perkins

  “Everyone who knows Cricket knows that,” I say.

  “Really?” Anna looks genuinely interested. “That’s cool.”

  Cricket rubs his neck. “No, it’s dumb trivia, that’s all.”

  “Are you joking?” St. Clair says. “He’s one of the most important inventors in the entire history of the world. Ever! And—”

  “It’s nothing,” Cricket interrupts.

  I’m taken aback, but then I remember that first night he was home, when I mentioned his middle name and our conversation grew awkward. Something has changed. But what?

  “Forgive his enthusiasm.” Anna grins at her boyfriend. “He’s a history nerd.”

  I can’t resist bragging. “Cricket happens to be a brilliant inventor himself.”

  “I’m not.” Cricket squirms. “I mess around. It’s not a big deal.”

  St. Clair looks enraptured. “Just think. You’re the direct descendant of the man who invented”—he pulls out his cell—“this !”

  “He didn’t invent that,” Cricket says drily.

  “Well, not this,” St. Clair says. “But the idea. The first one.”

  “No.” This is the most frustrated I’ve ever seen Cricket. “I mean he didn’t invent the telephone. Period.”

  The three of us blink at him.

  “Anna confused,” Anna says.

  “Alexander Graham Bell didn’t invent the telephone, a man named Elisha Gray did. My great-great-great-grandfather stole the idea from him. And Gray wasn’t even the first. There were others, one before Alexander was even born. They just didn’t realize the full implications of what they’d created.”

  St. Clair is fascinated. “What do you mean, he stole the idea?”

  “I mean, Alexander stole the idea, took credit for it, and made an unbelievable sum of money that shouldn’t have been his.” Cricket is furious now. “My family’s entire legacy is based on a lie.”

  Well. That would explain the change.

  St. Clair looks guilty for unintentionally goading Cricket into telling us. He opens his mouth to speak, but Cricket shakes his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t let it get to me.”

  “When did you learn this?” I ask quietly.

  “A couple of years ago. There was a book.”

  I don’t like the expression on his face. Further memories of his reluctance to talk about his inventions creep into my mind. “Cricket . . . just because he stole the idea doesn’t mean what you do is—”

  But he launches toward St. Clair. “Movie?”

  Anna and I stare at him in concern, but St. Clair easily takes over again. “Yes, if you ladies no longer require our services, I believe we’re off.” Cricket is already halfway to the door. My heart screams in surprised agony.

  He halts. It’s as if he’s physically stopped by something we can’t see. “Will you be here later?” he asks me. “When the movie gets out?”

  My throat dries. “I should be here.”

  He bites his bottom lip. And then they’re gone.

  “He’s so into you,” Anna says.

  I rearrange a stack of quarters and try to calm my thumping chest. What just happened? “Cricket’s a nice guy. He’s always been like that.”

  “Then he’s always been into you.”

  Yes. He has.

  Anna whisks out the glass cleaner and sprays a smudge that St. Clair left behind on the window. Her smile fades as she grows deeper in thought. “What’s the matter?” I ask. I’m desperate for a topic change.

  “Me? Nothing, I’m fine.”

  “No way,” I say. “It’s your turn. Spill it.”

  “It’s . . . my family is coming to visit.” She sets down the cleaner, but her hand tightens on the nozzle. “They met Étienne at our graduation last year, and they liked him, but my mom is pretty freaked out by how fast we’re moving. This visit could be so uncomfortable.”

  I pry the cleaner away from her. “Do you think you’re moving too fast?”

  Anna loosens and smiles again, love-struck. “Definitely not.”

  “Then you’ll be fine.” I nudge her. “Besides, everyone loves your boyfriend. Maybe your mom has just forgotten how gosh darn charming he is.”

  She laughs. Another patron comes to my window, and I print his ticket. When he leaves, Anna turns back to me and asks, “What about you? How are things with Max these days?”

  I’m struck by a terrible realization. “Oh, no. You wanted to meet him. We left!”

  “You had a bad night.” She shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “It’s okay, I swear. Everyone makes mistakes.” Anna stands and grabs her work keys. “The important thing is to not make the same mistake twice.”

  My guilt deepens. “I’m sorry about last week. When I came back from dinner late.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s not what I was thinking about.”

  “Then what?”

  Anna looks at me carefully. “Sometimes a mistake isn’t a what. It’s a who.”

  And she goes to rip tickets down the hall, leaving me with thoughts as jumbled as ever. Does she mean Max? Or Cricket? An hour later, Franko wanders in. He’s about thirty, and his hair is unevenly shorn. Like, he has random bald spots.

  “Heeeeeey, Lola. Have you seen the thing?”

  “What thing?”

  “You know . . . the thing with . . . our schedules on it and stuff?”

  “You mean our schedule?”

  “Yeah. Have you seen it?”

  I glance around. “Not in here. Sorry.” But Franko is already sifting through a pile of papers on the counter. He knocks the phone off its hook, and I grab it. “Careful!”

  “Did you find it?” Franko spins around as I’m coming up. His elbow jams into my face and knocks my glasses to the floor. “Whoops. I got it, Lola.”

  There’s a sickening crunch of plastic.

  “FRANKO!” My world has turned into blobs of color and light.

  “Whoa. Sorry, Lola. Were those real?”

  Anna rushes in. “What? What happened? Oh.” She bends over to pick up what I assume are my glasses. Her voice doesn’t sound promising. “Dude.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “You can’t see?” She holds them closer to my face. Pieces. Many, many pieces.

  I moan.

  “Sorry,” Franko says again.

  “Will you please go back to second-floor concessions?” Anna asks. He leaves. “Do you have another pair? Contacts? Anything?” she asks. I moan again. “Okay, no problem. Your shift is almost over. Your dad will be here soon to pick you up.”

  “I was supposed to take Muni.” Of course tonight is the night my parents are busy and leave me to public transportation.

  “But you can still take it, right?”

  “Anna, you’re two feet away, and I can’t tell if you’re smiling or frowning.”

  “Okay . . .” She sits down to think but immediately jumps back up. “Étienne and I will take you home! You’re only a quick detour from my school.”

  “You don’t have—”

  “It’s not a question,” she interrupts. And I’m relieved to hear her say it. I’m useless for the remainder of my shift. We’re ready to leave when the guys return, and Anna approaches the St. Clair–shaped blob. “We’re taking Lola home.”

  “Why? What happened?” the Cricket-shaped blob asks.

  I stare toward my shoes as I explain the situation.

  “You can’t see me?” St. Clair asks. “You have no idea what I’m doing?”

  “Stop it,” Anna says, and they laugh. I don’t know what’s happening. It’s humiliating.

  “I’ll take you home,” Cricket says.

  St. Clair protests. “Don’t you have—”

  “I’m next door. It’s not out of my way.”

  I’m ashamed of my own helplessness. “Thank you.”

  “Of course.” The sincerity behind this simple statement tugs at me. He’s not teasing me or mak
ing me feel bad about it. But Anna sounds worried as she hands me my purse. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

  The implied question: Are you sure you’ll be okay with Cricket?

  “I’m fine.” I give her a reassuring smile. “Thanks.” And it’s true until we step outside, and I trip over the sidewalk.

  Cricket grabs me.

  And I collapse again from the shock of his touch. He lifts me up, and despite the coat between us, my arm is buzzing like a fire alarm. “The sidewalks here are the worst,” he says. “The earthquakes have buckled them into land mines.” Cricket removes his hand. I blink at him, and he cautiously offers his arm.

  I hesitate.

  And then I take it.

  And then we’re so close that I smell him. I smell him.

  His scent is clean like a bar of soap, but with a sweet hint of mechanical oil. We don’t speak as he leads me across the street to the bus stop. I press against him. Just a little. His other arm jumps, and he lowers it. But then he raises it again, slowly, and his hand comes to rest on top of mine. It scorches. The heat carries a message: I care about you. I want to be connected to you. Don’t let go.

  But then . . . he does.

  He sits me on the bus stop’s fold-down seats, and he lets go, and he won’t look at me. We wait in agitated silence. The distance between us grows with each passing minute. Will he take my arm again, or will I have to take his? I steal a glance, but, of course, I can’t see his expression. Our bus exhales against the curb, and the door whooshes open.

  Cricket reaches for me.

  I look at the yellow glow in the sky that can only be the moon. Thank you.

  We climb aboard, and before I can find my Muni pass, he’s paid for my ticket. The bus is empty. It rumbles forward, not waiting for us to sit, and he grabs me tighter. I don’t need to hold on to him, but I do anyway, with both hands. We lower ourselves into a seat. Together. I’m clutching his shirt, and his heart is pounding like a drum.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  He peels off my hands and turns toward the aisle. “Please don’t make this any harder than it already is,” he whispers back.

  And I feel like the world’s biggest jerk.

  “Right.” I sink as far away from him as possible. “Sorry. No.”

  Max’s ghost takes a seat between us. It spreads out its legs territorially. The bus is cold, and the ride to the station is short. This time, I have to take his arm. He leads me robotically. Our trip from Van Ness to the Castro is bleak. The train rocks back and forth through the dark tunnels, and my humiliation grows bigger and bigger with each forced jostle against his shoulder. I need out. NOW. The doors open, and I race through the station and out the turnstile. He’s on my heels. I don’t need him.

  I don’t need him, I don’t need him, I don’t need him.

  But I trip on the sidewalk again, and his arm is around my waist, and when I pull from his grasp, he only tightens it. There’s a silent struggle between us as I try to wriggle my way out. “For a skinny guy, your arms are like a steel trap,” I hiss.

  Cricket bursts into laughter. His grip loosens, and I break away, stumbling forward.

  “Oh, come on, Lola.” He’s still laughing. “Let me help you.”

  “I’m never going anywhere again without a backup vision plan.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “And I’m only accepting your help because I don’t want to run into something and accidentally rip this glorious polyester uniform.”

  “Understood.”

  “And none of this has changed anything between us.” My voice shakes.

  “Also understood,” he says softly.

  I take a deep breath. “Okay.”

  Neither of us moves. He’s leaving it up to me. I tentatively reach for him again. He extends his arm, and I take it. The gesture of one friend helping another. There’s nothing more, because as long as there’s Max, there can’t be anything more. And I love Max.

  So that’s that.

  “So,” Cricket says, one quiet block later. “Tell me about this famous dress.”

  “What dress?”

  “The one you’re making the stays for. It sounds important.”

  My conversation with Max rushes back in, and I’m embarrassed. Dances are such feminine affairs. I can’t bear to hear scorn from Cricket, too. “It’s for my winter formal,” I say. “And it’s not important.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s . . . just a big dress.”

  “Big like a parachute? Big like a circus tent?”

  As always, he makes me smile when I’m determined not to. “Big like Marie Antoinette.”

  He whistles. “That is big. What are those things called? Hoop skirts?”

  “Sort of. In that period, they were called panniers. They went out to the side, rather than around in a perfect circle.”

  “Sounds challenging.”

  “It is.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “Maybe it would be if I had any idea what I was doing. Panniers are these giant, structural contraptions. Making them isn’t sewing; it’s construction. And I have illustrations, but I can’t find decent instructions.”

  “Do you want to show me the illustrations?”

  My brow creases. “Why?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe I could figure it out.”

  I’m about to say I don’t need his help, when I realize . . . he’s exactly the right person for the job. “Um. Yeah. That’d be nice, thanks.” We’ve reached my steps. I gently squeeze his arm and let go. “I’ve got this part.”

  “I’ve taken you this far.” His voice becomes unsteady. “I can take you that much farther.” And he reaches for me one last time.

  I brace myself for the contact.

  “Cricket!” A call from between our houses, and his arm drops like an anchor. She must have been taking out the trash. Calliope hugs him from behind, and I can’t really see her, but she sounds like she’s about to cry. “Practice was a nightmare. I can’t believe you’re here, you said you couldn’t come. God, it’s good to see you. I’ll make hot cocoa and tell you all—Oh. Lola.”

  Cricket is oddly petrified into silence.

  “Your very kind brother walked me home from work,” I explain. “My glasses broke, and I’m completely blind.”

  She pauses. “Where is it you work again?The movie theater?”

  I’m surprised she knows. “Yeah.”

  Calliope turns back to Cricket. “You went to the movies? What about that huuuge project due tomorrow? I thought that’s why you couldn’t come home. How strange.”

  “Cal—” he says.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen.” She stalks away.

  I wait until she’s inside. “You have a project due tomorrow?”

  He waits a long time before answering. “Yes.”

  “You weren’t coming home tonight, were you?”

  “No.”

  “You came home for me.”

  “Yes.”

  We’re quiet again. I take his arm. “Then take me home.”

  chapter eighteen

  I’m encouraging him. And I can’t stop.

  Why can’t I stop?

  I press my palm against the front door, and my forehead comes to rest against it, too. I listen to his footsteps descend on the other side. They’re slow, unhurried. I’m the one making our lives harder. I’m the one making this friendship difficult. But he’s the one who won’t stop coming back. He’s smarter than that. He should know it’s time to move on and to stay away from me.

  I don’t want him to stay away.

  What DO I want? The answers are murky and unreadable, though it’s clear I don’t want another broken heart. Not his and certainly not mine. He needs to stay away.

  I don’t want him to stay away.

  “That Bell boy grew up well,” Norah says.

  I startle. She’s in the turquoise chaise longue that rests against the front bay window. How long has she been here? She mu
st have seen us. Did she hear us? She watches him, until I assume his figure disappears, before turning her attention to me.

  “You look tired, Lola.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “Fair enough.”

  But she’s right. I’m exhausted. We stare at each other. Norah is blurry, but I can see enough. Her gray shirt hangs loosely against her chest, and she’s wearing one of Andy’s grandmother’s old quilts wrapped around her for warmth. Her long hair and her thin arms are limp. Everything about her hangs. It’s as if her own body has rejected her.

  I wonder what she sees when she looks at me.

  “You know what we need?” she asks.

  I don’t like her use of the word we. “What?”

  “Tea. We need tea.”

  I sigh. “I don’t need tea. I need to go to bed.”

  Norah pulls herself up. She groans as if her joints are sore, as if they were as old as the blanket around her shoulders. She takes my arm, and I flinch. The warm, comforting feeling of Cricket’s hand disappears and is replaced by hers, clammy and sharp. She leads me into the kitchen, and I’m too worn out to stop her.

  Norah pulls out a chair at the table. I sag into it.

  “I’ll be right back,” she says. I hear her climb the stairs, followed by the sound of my bedroom door being opened. Before I can get worked up, my door shuts again. She returns and hands me another pair of eyeglasses.

  I’m surprised. “Thanks.”

  “What happened to the pair you left in?”

  “They got stepped on.”

  “Someone stepped on your glasses?” Now she sounds pissed.

  “Not on purpose. Jeez.” I scowl. “Are my parents still on their date?”

  “I guess. Why should I care?” She fills the copper teakettle with tap water and sets it down with more force than necessary. It shakes the stove.

  “You had another fight,” I say.

  Norah doesn’t respond, but the manner in which she roots through her cardboard box of tea is resentful and angry.

  Her box of tea.

  “No!” I jump up. “You’re not reading my leaves.”

  “Nonsense. This is what you nee—”

  “You don’t know a thing about what I really need.” The bitter words spit out before I can stop them.